


Persistence: Part 4

by JaneOfCakes



Series: Persistence [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst because it's them, Fluff because they're cute idiots, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Reichenbach, Psychological Torture, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut because why not, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-01 18:58:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15780114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneOfCakes/pseuds/JaneOfCakes
Summary: It's here, my friends! And not a moment too soon. I don't know why, but this Part has been harder to edit than it should be. Sorry, y'all. No summary, no spoilers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's here, my friends! And not a moment too soon. I don't know why, but this Part has been harder to edit than it should be. Sorry, y'all. No summary, no spoilers.

The next two weeks bring services for both Harry and Standish. John takes the first week away from the surgery and goes back for the second, wanting nothing more than to make his life as normal as possible. He has been quiet at home, which has worried Sherlock on more than one occasion. Each night after dinner, Sherlock finds John on the sofa staring blankly at the telly. He wasn’t sure what to do the first night it happened. He stood awkwardly just inside the room, trying to decide what to say or whether to say anything at all.

Without much hesitation, he strode to the sofa and knelt before his doctor. John’s far away eyes had focused on him right away. He just looked at the detective’s face sadly and then whispered, “I can’t believe she’s gone.” Sherlock drew the smaller man into his arms and there they remained until John pulled back and motioned for Sherlock to join him on the sofa. He didn’t need to be asked twice. As soon as he sat, John snuggled up against him. They spent the evening, and each one since then, just like that.

This evening is no different, except John is far more conversational over dinner. Sherlock finds himself so excited to simply chat with John that he very willingly babbles incessantly on any subject he can think of, or that John thinks of. After everything has been cleaned up and put away, he walks into the sitting room with a big smile on his face. John turns his head and gives him a little smile from where he already sits on the sofa. Sherlock trots over and takes his place next to him, tamping down the urge to kiss those beautiful lips that haven’t smiled so freely as this evening in the last fourteen days.

As soon as Sherlock is next to him, John lays his head in the man’s lap comfortably. Seeing the look of surprise on his angular face, John smiles up at him shyly.

“Okay?”

“Perfect,” Sherlock smiles back.

They watch an episode of The Office in silence with only their giggles and the show’s dialog filling the air around them. Sherlock knows he shouldn’t enjoy the sitcom. Like Mycroft, he should find it absolutely tedious, but he can’t help liking the quiet bloke. There is something cute and charming about him, and he also bears a striking resemblance to John. In spite of that, Sherlock knows full well he would watch even if the character didn’t exist. There is something so precious and unguarded about John when he chortles and outright laughs at the office antics. Sherlock marvels as he looks down into John’s face. He could stay here for days just watching John laugh.

Shortly after the next program begins, another in syndication, something cute with Dame Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer, John looks up at Sherlock with soft, soulful eyes.

“I’m sorry about the last couple weeks. I’ve been…”

“Grieving.” They share a look. “I understand, John. You were very fond of your sister, in spite of the circumstances of your relationship. You may have as much time as you need.”

“Ta,” the corners of John’s mouth turn up. “I never would’ve thought you’d be so understanding that day we first met.”

“You must admit, a lot has changed since then,” Sherlock replies. “I have changed.”

“We both have. For the better.” He picks up Sherlock’s hand and kisses his palm. Holding it to his chest, he turns his head back to the telly. Sherlock begins to stroke his flatmate’s hair. He watches carefully, allowing himself to deduce John and yet, he tries not to invade his privacy. A level of respect he grants John alone.

John continues to look at the telly, but Sherlock can tell he is no longer watching, his mind on other matters entirely. Sherlock knows the oncoming question even before John voices it.

“You said she’d been tortured,” he looks up at Sherlock again, his face open. They have not spoken of it since that first day and even then, to a very limited extent. Sherlock could see plainly that John hadn’t wanted to talk, or even to know. He was more than happy to give John the time he needed.

“Yes. They both had.”

“By the same person?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I believe to obtain information about you.”

John’s eyes widen. Sherlock continues to stroke his blonde locks, knowing his deductions will be painful for John to hear, but also knowing he is ready to hear the truth.

“Me?”

“They have no other connection. The killer wanted something from them. Something they would not give up easily. A friend. A brother.”

“Jim,” John’s expression hardens. “You think it was Jim, don’t you?”

“I cannot rule out that possibility,” Sherlock answers carefully.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice is a warning.

“Yes.”

The silence is deafening. They study one another intently. This is not at all what Sherlock expected and it’s very disconcerting. He expected John to yell, to be pissed, and while he looks angry, it isn’t the fury Sherlock has anticipated. There is still so much sadness to temper it. He watches as John releases the breath he was holding.

“Christ.”

“I could be wrong.”

“You’re never wrong,” he returns, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“I was wrong about you.” John lets his hands drop on his own chest, onto Sherlock’s hand still laying over John’s heart, and stares unabashedly at his flatmate. “About us. I thought we should ignore our feelings and not risk our friendship. You know how wrong I was about that.”

John nods, his eyes softening. He covers Sherlock’s hand with both of his own. 

“Who else would do it?”

“I can’t tell you that. We haven’t the evidence.”

“Which makes it even more likely to be him. He can cover his tracks.”

“Indeed,” he slides his fingers from John’s hair and cups his cheek. “I will find their killer. And I will protect you. I promise you.”

“I know you will,” John smiles and touches his warm hand to Sherlock’s face. “Thank you.”

He pulls Sherlock downward gently. His flatmate complies and bends to press their lips together. When they part, John turns into Sherlock’s belly and wraps his arms around him, snuffling into his shirt. Sherlock holds him close and they both listen quietly as Dench and Palmer attempt to outwit the nosy sister-in-law.

***

Another week goes by without any clear evidence or progress in the case, which only furthers Sherlock and John’s suspicions that Moriarty is responsible. However, with little else they can do, the two carry on with the Work and the surgery, and with their relationship. Their normal comes to them again so quickly and easily - conversation, affection, simple everyday touches, holding one another through the night. There are no nightmares.

Yet another week passes. John and Sherlock fall asleep in each other’s arms on a Thursday night, but only after a spectacular snogging session. The first in weeks and not a moment too soon for either man. There had been no real distance between them since the deaths, but John had needed some space and time to work through the loss of his friend and sister, and Sherlock freely gave him what he needed. But both find themselves craving heated kisses and desperate touches once again.

John opens his eyes slowly to see a pair of gorgeous silver eyes sparkling back at him in the morning sun that pours into their bedroom. He is on his side facing Sherlock, who has propped himself up on an elbow and is watching him wistfully. John blinks a few times and grins at his flatmate. Sherlock’s mouth quirks up and he has that look on his face again. John raises a brow, giving him a stern look.

“Don’t say adorable.”

“I cannot tell a lie,” the detective grins slyly.

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” John narrows his eyes. Sherlock laughs and leans forward to kiss John lightly on his cute, little, pointed nose. He keeps that description to himself, of course, smiling wide against John’s lips.

“I’m pleased to see you are wearing my favorite pajamas.”

“I’m not wearing pajamas.”

Sherlock nips at his lower lip and then sucks it into his mouth. John moans quietly, making the detective’s cock twitch. He bites lightly on that delectable lower lip before letting it loose.

“As I said, my favorite.”

Their mouths press together hungrily. Their hands begin to roam somewhat restlessly. When John’s fingers finally stop tracing around Sherlock’s thin but well-defined body, one hand is on his chest and the other on a pert bum cheek. Sherlock Holmes has a perfect ass. For his part, Sherlock’s hands rest low around John’s waist. John rolls onto his back, pulling Sherlock with him, not unlike the last time they were in such an embrace. Sherlock’s eyes snap open at the memory, even though it was more than a month ago, and he pulls back to study his flatmate cautiously.

“John,” he begins in a warning tone.

“I know. I’m sorry about last time, but I’m ready now. And I have an idea,” he licks his lips nervously. “Something that shouldn’t trigger any memories. If you’re willing to try.”

Sherlock fixes him with a steady gaze.

“I will always trust you, John.”

“That may be your undoing,” John says very seriously, “but thank you. It means a lot to me.”

Sherlock smiles and blinks slowly. He glides his long fingers up and down the sides of John’s chest and belly. The man shivers under his touch and smiles up at him almost shyly. He tips his chin up to capture Sherlock’s lips with his own. Tilting his head, their mouths slot together perfectly, deepening the kiss. John opens his mouth slowly and touches Sherlock’s lips with the tip of his tongue, lightly and smoothly. The detective sighs contentedly and allows his own lips to open. John dives in without hesitation.

After a luxurious snog, their hands roaming every inch of the other’s body, John pauses to look Sherlock in the eye. Without a word, he reaches overhead and comes back with a small bottle of lube. He squirts some onto his own fingers and looks at Sherlock hesitantly. The detective returns a questioning expression and then understands. He wets his lips and angles his body to allow John easier access. When those slick, compact fingers touch him, Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and a low sigh escapes his lips. He  **must** spend his life with this man. Every molecule in his body cries out in undying love for John Watson.

Sherlock’s mind continues to wander and float through pure bliss until the feeling of those fingers disappears. He opens his eyes and grumbles in protest. John chuckles and puts his hands on the man’s narrow hips. He pauses as if waiting for permission. Sherlock gives him a single nod and starts raising his hips, but still can’t keep from giving John a worried look when the doctor starts to bring Sherlock down on his own cock.

“I’m not sure this is wise.”

“He never did anything like this. He couldn’t,” John whispers, shaking his head and looking hopeful. “I think it’ll be okay. Please. All we can do is try. Someday I’ll be okay.”

Sherlock considers John’s words tentatively. He knows he can’t refuse the beautiful man beneath him, but doesn’t want to rush John into anything either. He studies John carefully once again and sees hope, love, want, slight nervousness, and that stubborn spirit he so admires. Sherlock makes up his mind. If John wants to try, if he is willing to put his trust in Sherlock, then Sherlock will do the same for him.

“I’m with you no matter what. We’re in this together,” the detective speaks quietly and sincerely. “If you have any doubts, if you feel any pain, just tell me and we’ll stop.”

John searches Sherlock’s face and seems to draw more strength and certainty from him.

“I will.”

They both nod and both begin to lower Sherlock down slowly, deeper and deeper until he is fully seated on John. Sherlock sighs and takes a moment to adjust to the feeling, then he starts rocking on John’s hips. John keeps his hands on the crease at the top of Sherlock’s thighs, helping his lover establish a steady pace. He begins thrusting upward in rhythm, even raising his bum off the bed, meeting each inward stroke and pressing further into Sherlock. The detective pushes John to the bed with his hands on John’s shoulders. Their mouths meet for intense kisses, all the while they are moving faster and faster. Closing his eyes and slamming his head into the pillows, John knows he’s already close and tries his best to think of some distraction that will make it last longer. It doesn’t work.

“God, Sherlock. Oh, fuck.”

John’s body tenses and lurches up against Sherlock as he comes inside him. They ride it out and begin kissing again at a fever pitch. Somewhere in the middle of it, John swiftly pushes Sherlock onto his back and straddles his hips. He attacks his mouth and snogs him to within an inch of his senses. Then he moves to Sherlock’s long, pale column of neck, nipping and licking hungrily. All Sherlock can do is gasp and claw at John’s body. 

Soon John moves down to Sherlock’s bare chest, his teeth scraping against a nipple. Sherlock’s whole body shudders with pleasure, his fingers running through blonde hair and over tanned skin. John kisses and sucks his way down Sherlock’s belly, and then takes him in his mouth with reckless abandon. Sherlock inhales sharply while every muscle in his body tenses. His fingers stroke at John’s soft hair. He’s so close. So very close. And John knows it. He hollows his cheeks, moving slowly up and down Sherlock, licking with a luxurious tongue. Sherlock tries desperately not to thrash around wildly beneath his insistent doctor. His mind is blank, gloriously blank. He can think of nothing but John. His beautiful John Watson.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s body tightens into total stillness for a few seconds and then the orgasm crashes over him. He cries out, completely overcome. Fireworks explode in his brain. He gasps and pants until his body finally goes limp, sinking into the bed, boneless.

When Sherlock opens his eyes, John is crawling up his body to look into his blissed out face. With a smile, he kisses John affectionately and wraps his long fingers around John’s hipbones.

“Fuck me, that was gorgeous.”

“Really, John, that mouth,” Sherlock gives him a look of mock offense. “I can’t believe I just let you suck me off with it.”

John breaks up laughing. Sherlock watches him with soft eyes and a warm smile.

“I love when you laugh. It hasn’t happened as much lately.”

“I know,” he replies solemnly. “I want everything to be normal again too. Well, normal for us.”

“We are well on our way, John,” carding his hand through John’s hair. “Things may not go back to exactly the way they were, but we’ll find a new normal. We’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“I do.”

Sherlock can’t help but shiver at the words and leans in to kiss John full on the mouth with all the feeling he can muster. He has proposed to John more than once. Why is it he will never say those words then? Why won’t John marry him? Does he need more time or perhaps he has changed his mind.

“Mmmm…” John smiles broadly. “We could give ourselves a few minutes and give it another go.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to rib John about declaring himself too old for such shenanigans and then suggesting them outright, but doesn’t get the chance when a friendly voice shouts into the flat.

“Boys! Are you awake? Boys?” Mrs. Hudson calls. “You have a special visitor. I’m just putting the kettle on.”

“Damn,” John sighs. Sherlock smirks at his lover and begins to squirm.

“We’d best get up before she comes to fetch us.”

“Oh, god, you’re right. Hurry.” Sherlock kisses him thoroughly one last time before letting him go. John grins and pulls his flatmate from the bed.

They walk into dining area a few minutes later, both cleaned up and completely dressed, looking fresh for the morning. Sherlock stops dead at the sight of his brother. John continues on and sits at the dining table across from the older man.

“THIS is our special guest??”

“A pleasure, as always, Sherlock,” Mycroft replies smugly. He gives John a calm nod of acknowledgement. “John.”

“Mycroft.”

Mrs. Hudson bustles in with a pot and mugs. She scolds the detective as she places it all on the table.

“Oh, Sherlock, really! It’s his first visit since he was shot. So good to see you again, dear.”

“Likewise,” the man says with a wry smile.

“We should’ve stayed in bed.”

“Oh, Sherlock!” She gives him a sharp look and he glares back. Meanwhile, John has poured himself and Mycroft a cuppa. The two men each take a sip and watch the standoff between the consulting detective and his landlady. Narrowing her eyes and feeling she has made her point, Mrs. Hudson sniffs at Sherlock and starts down the hall to leave the flat.

“Ta, Mrs. Hudson,” John calls after her.

“You’re welcome, dear, but remember… I’m not your housekeeper.”

The door to the flat closes. John looks from the nonchalant Mycroft to the seething Sherlock. He sips his tea and briefly wonders why the elder’s mere presence offends Sherlock so. Then all the history between them creeps to the forefront of John’s mind and he just sips again, eyes shifting from one man to the other. Eventually, he decides to move this along and breaks the silence.

“Well, what is it, Mycroft? You never come here without a reason. Is it a case?”

“If it is, I’m rather busy at the moment,” Sherlock quips furiously. “The Yard’s finest are out of their depth once again.”

“I’m quite sure they are,” Mycroft agrees as he puts his mug on the table. “As it happens, Sherlock, I am here as a courtesy to you.”

“A courtesy??” he replies, incredulous. Mycroft simply smiles and looks from his brother’s face to John’s. 

“To both of you.”

“When have you ever…”

“Hang on, hang on,” John holds up a hand to cut off his flatmate. “Let’s hear what he has to say, shall we? Then we’ll decide whether or not to stone him.”

Sherlock crosses his arms petulantly while John rolls his eyes and focuses on Mycroft, who has an undeniably charmed grin on his face.

“You were saying.”

“You are a treasure, John Watson,” the man glances at Sherlock with satisfaction and undisguised amusement. “I have never before met anyone who could silence my little brother so quickly.”

John stifles a laugh while Sherlock steps forward impatiently.

“Your point, Mycroft, I suggest you get to it quickly.”

“James Moriarty is in England.”

“WHAT?!” John leaps to his feet. “Where is he? In London?”

“No. We found a trail in Cornwall. Seems he arrived yesterday. Don’t concern yourself. We will find him.”

“Forgive me, Mycroft, but the fools in your employ do not inspire my confidence,” Sherlock stalks over to the table to stand before his brother. 

“Be that as it may, they are very effective.”

“ **They** are the ones who lost him the first time!”

“We’ve traced him to a specific area of Cornwall through his texts and phone calls to John,” Mycroft replies calmly, ignoring Sherlock’s outburst.

“You have a trace on my mobile?” Silence. “When the bloody hell were you going to tell me??”

Both heads turn together, giving him a look that says ‘Don’t be an idiot’. John straightens and smooths down his shirt angrily, just so he has something to do with his hands that isn’t decking the pompous bastard across the table.

“Right. Right. What was I thinking? Of course you do. Why tell me? That would be too fucking considerate.” He stomps off. Both Holmeses watch him go and then return their attention to the matter at hand.

“You’ve no indication that he has been anywhere near London?”

“None. Obviously, we are tracking his movements carefully.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock glowers. Mycroft cocks a brow, beginning to find his brother’s antics tiresome.

“I will alert you if anything changes.”

“See that you do. He  **cannot** get to John again. I will not allow it!”

“I know what he means to you, Sherlock. Do give me some credit.” He pauses to cool his temper, letting a long breath out through his nose. “I will do everything in my power to protect him.”

Rather than respond, Sherlock ends the conversation with a sharp nod as John enters the room, still fuming. Sherlock turns to face his flatmate. He takes a moment to ground himself. He is all business, cold and clinical, but does not want to upset John any further. He tries to alter his tone of voice and body language to something with more empathy.

“Has he said anything about coming here for you? Something only you would understand?”

“Are you really asking?” John snaps sarcastically, his arms crossed over his chest. “Because I’d have thought you’d already know.”

Sherlock sighs and frowns, letting his shoulders sag ever so slightly. John purses his lips and glares.

“No,” he finally answers stubbornly. “He’s promised to come back for me, but not made it sound like the near future. Keeps saying he has things to do first.”

“Do you believe him?”

John pauses to cool his temper and give the question real consideration. He lets himself think back on everything Jim has said to him and nods. 

“Yes. I’m sure he’ll be back when his plans allow. He won’t let me go.”

“You say he only just re-entered the country yesterday?” Sherlock looks to Mycroft, who nods his confirmation. John knows what the detective is thinking. If Jim came back to England yesterday, he can’t be responsible for Standish or Harry’s death. Unless he had someone else do it? “I want to see where he’s been. I’m going to find out what he’s doing here, and what he plans.”

***

A few days later, John and Sherlock have just come from Mycroft’s office from which he was conspicuously absent, in spite of his extreme aversion to leg work. Sherlock immediately stalks into the kitchen, throwing off his coat and putting the kettle on, grumbling all the way. John watches after him with a small smile on his face.

“I don’t know where he could be. He never leaves his bloody office,” he clatters around angrily. John chuckles softly and shakes his head, turning toward the dining table only to stop dead in horror. Sherlock’s voice reaches his ears, but John doesn’t hear him. John doesn’t hear anything. “Where the hell is he? He doesn’t do fieldwork.”

John doesn’t answer, doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. He has seen what is on the dining table. Before he can stop it, before he can even think, fear cuts through his heart like ice.

“The very idea of rising from his chair for anything more than going to his home or coming here to harangue us is inconceivable.” He steps away from the counter and walks into the next room, still complaining. “There’s something he’s not telling me,” Sherlock stops behind John and frowns. John’s shoulders are trembling lightly. His head hangs low, looking at something in his hands. “John? What is it?”

“I was wrong,” he shakes his head. “He’s coming.”

“How do you know?” Sherlock frowns. Slowly, deliberately, with an expression of defeat, John turns to face his flatmate. He holds out a shiny, red apple so Sherlock can see the words I MISS U gouged out of its skin. Sherlock’s shoulders drop, his lips parting to release a quiet exhalation of shock. His disheartened eyes lift from the apple to John’s face. His dark blue eyes are wide and shining and furious.

“If he’s in London, why hasn’t Mycroft said something?” his voice is shaking and his eyes are beginning to fill, even as he defiantly blinks them back. “I want this to be over. I want it to end. God, I want to kill him.”

Sherlock darts forward, closing the distance between them in two quick strides. He grasps John’s biceps with both hands and squares his shoulders. John’s slackening hand drops the apple. His eyes follow as he looks down, crestfallen. A tear drips down his cheek.

“John, look at me. He will not take you again. I won’t let him. He’ll have to kill me first.”

“He would. Gladly.”

“No. He will interfere in our lives no longer. Both of us, and Lestrade, and Mycroft will do everything in our power to make sure he can’t hurt anyone again.” Sherlock pulls John into a close embrace. John suddenly feels safe and warm in Sherlock’s arms, even with the chill of Jim’s threat still in his veins. “Especially you. He will not hurt you again. I love you, John. More than words can ever express.”

“I know, I know,” he clutches at Sherlock’s back, finding his voice again. “I love you too, but…”

“No,” Sherlock pulls back to meet John’s eyes. “No buts. No doubts. We’ll protect you.  **I’ll** protect you.”

John looks at him with soft eyes, tilting his head. There is so much confidence and determination in those silver eyes. Sherlock clearly means every word he says to his core. John has never seen such devotion, least of all directed at him. He wets his lips, feeling his heart actually melt on the spot.

“I believe you.”

“Then trust me,” Sherlock breathes in that dark, breathless tone.

“I do.”

Once again, those two whispered words send shivers down Sherlock’s spine. His imagination suddenly revealing unbidden images of John standing before him in a dark suit, a flower on his lapel. Their fingers are laced together. A voice finishes asking John a quiet question and he smiles genuinely before saying,  _ I do. _

“Sherlock?” The detective’s eyes focus again as that door in his mind palace snaps shut. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Let’s phone Lestrade and then see if we can find my wayward brother, shall we?”

***

Near the boating lake in Regent’s Park, Mycroft stands on a bridge overlooking a small stream that feeds the lake. Though he keeps himself from pacing, the man is very agitated and brimming with impatience. He tilts his head slightly in much the same way Sherlock does when he hears footsteps approaching.

“Don’t look now. There’s a mad man behind you.”

The elder Holmes turns to face the sinister smile of James Moriarty. He glowers at the shorter man as he walks right to his side.

“James…so good to see you again.”

“I’ll bet,” Moriarty smirks. He turns around and leans against the bridge railing, his elbows bent and forearms resting on the top rail. “You seem angry, Holmes. My men giving you the runaround?” Mycroft says nothing and merely continues to glare, but with a look of disinterest. Moriarty holds in a chuckle and then gives Mycroft a dirty look. “What do you want? I don’t have all day.”

“You will forget my brother AND Dr. Watson.”

“Or what?” he asks after a short laugh.

“I will bring down your network. Your organization will crumble around you. You’ll be powerless,” Mycroft finally smiles wryly. “Can you do that, James? Live without power?”

“You’ll never do it,” he challenges, eyes narrowing.

“Really? And why is that?”

Moriarty turns toward the taller man and leans in close. When he speaks, it comes in a dangerous whisper, full of threat and promise.

“Because I will kill the person most important to you.” A hideous smile comes over his face and he nods slowly. “If you lift so much as a finger to keep me from taking what’s mine, I’ll make it slow…and painful…and I’ll make you watch.”

Mycroft’s perpetual chill gives way to a split-second of horror before reclaiming its typical indifference. The smile on Moriarty’s face widens. He looks very satisfied with himself as he steps back again.

“I’m glad we understand each other.” He starts walking away, but stops to look back at the older man. “It’s a shame to be in love, isn’t it, Holmes?”

He walks away casually, laughing to himself. Mycroft watches after him, scowling. Only when Moriarty has disappeared from sight does Mycroft allow his shoulders to sag. He lets his head drop back and stares up at the sky, furious that he dropped his poker face. And that he must now betray his own brother, a boy...a man he has sworn to protect over all others. 

Almost all others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the actual fuck, Mycroft?! Am I right??
> 
> I'd say more, but I'm not even sure what else I can say. So bring it on. What do y'all think of these developments? What are you theories? Can Sherlock really protect John when Moriarty can apparently still just waltz into their flat whenever he wants? When will he come for John and what will John do when he does? What will Sherlock do? Jeez, I thought I had no words and here I am Deadpool questioning anyway. Here's the big one. The biggest MFer of them all. ... What is Sherlock going to do when he discovers Mycroft's betrayal? AHHHH!
> 
> Thank you for your patience and for all the love. I know I say that all the time, but it's so true. You all mean the world to me. I hope you love this Part as much as the previous three. I'll be posting whenever I can, so keep an eye out.  
> Until next time. Much love, Jane


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The secret life of Harry Watson.  
> Molly makes a discovery.

A week later, Greg summons the detective and his blogger to a video viewing room at New Scotland Yard. His officers have been scouring through CCTV footage since the murder of Abigail Smart, the woman found in her flat weeks ago and victim of the assassin Sherlock and John would be tracking diligently if it hadn’t been for everything else in their lives suddenly spiraling out of control. Apparently, they have found something.

Greg leads them from his office through the cubicles, desks, and officers to Video Room B. Upon entering, he gestures to three seats at a long table sitting before a large flat screen and closes the door behind. John motions to Sherlock to let him pick first. He swans by and sits quickly while John rolls his eyes, the corners of his mouth turning up. Greg dims the lights and joins them.

“We found Abigail Smart on a tube surveillance camera a few days before her death. I think you’ll find it interesting,” he explains as he brings the equipment to life. Soon they are watching endless swarms of people walking through the Charing Cross Station. “There’s matching footage from about two months before her death as well. I have people looking back farther, and at other tube cameras.”

“You called us in here for this?” Sherlock rants immediately. “She uses the tube. So do millions of other people!”

“You’re lucky we have anything,” Greg snaps defensively. “She’s not an easy woman to find.”

“The incompetence of your officers can hardly be blamed on her.”

“Sherlock!” John interrupts loudly.

“She doesn’t want to be seen. I’m telling you, Sherlock, there’s more to Smart that meets the eye.”

The detective glares at the footage impatiently, punctuating his annoyance with a dismissive huff in Greg’s direction. John glances at his flatmate and leans in a little.

“We haven’t come up with anything either, Sherlock,” he says in a low voice, but one Greg can still hear plainly. Sherlock glares at him openly. “You know as well as I do that Greg wouldn’t call us in without good reason.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Name one time,” Greg sits back and crosses his arms. His expression is somewhere between annoyance and entertainment.

“We have come when bidden countless times to make statements for your pointless reports.”

“That’s proper procedure,” Greg  answers shortly, unfolding his arms and straightening.

“It’s a waste of time.”

John sighs and watches the screen while the two men argue. Soon the figure of Abigail Smart walks briskly, but casually into the shot. She pauses to set down her case next to a kiosk, picks a brochure from the kiosk, and walks out of the shot. Sherlock, who had apparently been multitasking, pauses his side of the argument just long enough to take a breath and launch into a very different tyrade.

“You wanted us to come here for that?!”

“Sod off.”

Sherlock flies from his seat and stalks to the opposite wall for a good sulk. His back is turned so he can’t even see the daggers Greg is staring into his well-tailored form.

“Really, Sherlock? Really?” John begins, totally exasperated. “We haven’t even seen the whole clip yet!” He looks to Greg with a softer expression. “I assume it gets more interesting?”

“It does,” he growls, tearing his eyes from Sherlock and giving John a quick nod. Greg starts watching the footage with John again while Sherlock huffs behind them. They watch a full minute as no one pays any heed to the abandoned case. John is just beginning to contemplate tube safety and the risk of explosives left in unattended cases when a familiar face appears on the screen. His eyes pop open wide, along with his mouth. He is, at first, so flabbergasted that words fail him and his voice nearly cracks when he does manage to speak.

“HOLY SHIT! IT’S HARRY!”

“What??” Sherlock spins and takes his place between them again. They watch as Harriet Watson walks through the station, picks up the case rather expertly, and disappears from view. Greg stops the recording and looks at them smugly.

“Now you know why I wanted you to see it.”

“I don’t understand. What the fuck was she doing?” John stares at the monitor, his voice almost a whisper. He holds out a hand to Greg, who places the remote in it, so John can silently watch his sister walk into frame and pick up the case a second time. “It doesn’t make any sense. Whoever Smart was, Harry had no reason to know her.”

Sherlock ends a call he began as soon as he saw the recording once through and pockets his mobile. He had swept out of his seat again and walked a few steps from the other two men, murmuring into his phone. Now he has turned back to face them. Sherlock suspected he knew all of the answers to their questions and also knew of only one person who could confirm it. Much as Sherlock hates to call on Mycroft for anything, he would walk fiery coals for John and, for Sherlock, the two are not far off.

“Trying to learn more about Smart or her connection to Harry will fail,” he announces stoically. John and Greg turn to stare at him blankly, trying to grasp what the hell he means by that. “Abigail Smart never existed.”

“What?”

“She’s dead in my morgue! She sure as hell existed,” Greg pipes up immediately, rising from his chair to look at the detective full-on.

“The identity Abigail Smart was created by MI6 ten years ago and has subsequently been kept from any and all formal records ever since, regardless of her affairs. The woman we know as Smart was given the identity when she joined an elite force of British spies seven years ago. Before that, Abigail Smart was someone else.”

“What? Like James Bond?” Greg asks. Sherlock rolls his eyes and lets his shoulders drop a little in disappointment. He answers in a sullen voice.

“Yes, like James Bond.”

“Is that what Mycroft calls them?” Greg smirks.

“It makes little difference what the British government calls them. They are spies.”

“Okay, fine. She was some kind of spy. What the hell does Harry have to do with any of it? She had no way of even knowing this woman.”

“Didn’t she, John?” Sherlock turns his full attention on his flatmate, who is now up on his feet. “You have no idea what your sister did after you joined the army.”

“But she couldn’t have joined MI6.”

“You knew everything she did then? Both before and after you left?” he cocks a brow. “You were in medical school. Long hours of work and study here in London. She was still in Aldershot, wasn’t she? Or was she?” John’s mouth closes and he goes quiet, his expression grave. “How much did you really know, John? How much would you know if she was making every effort to hide it?”

“You’re saying she trained while I was at uni?” John swallows hard.

“Yes. Mycroft confirmed it.”

John scrubs his hands through his hair and turns away. Sherlock suddenly feels empty in the absence of John’s eyes. He is treating this like any other case, not guarding what he says like he should be. He isn’t talking about just anyone. He is talking about John’s sister. His John. 

He takes a step toward his flatmate, poised to speak when there is a quiet knock on the door. Greg crosses to it and cracks it open. He shares a few mumbled words with the unmistakable voice of Sally Donovan and quickly slips out. Sherlock turns his full attention to John, walking to stand behind him. He lightly places his hands on the smaller man’s shoulders. John doesn’t acknowledge him, but does not move away either.

“I’m sorry, John. That was blunt. And very thoughtless of me.”

“No, it’s okay,” John shakes his head and cups a hand on his own nape as he turns to face Sherlock again. “It’s all true. If Harry had wanted to hide something from me, it wouldn’t have been hard. I guess I didn’t know her as well as I thought.”

“On the contrary, John, you knew her well. But you both had your own lives and goals. Her’s had to remain a secret.”

The door opens, interrupting their conversation, and Greg rejoins them. The duo looks at his grim expression intently. His lips are pressed into a thin line. His voice is low and very serious when he speaks.

“Seems Smart wasn’t the only target.”

“The assassin has killed again,” Sherlock answers him. Greg gives a single, slow nod.

“Captain Arthur Martin, formerly of the 7th Northum…”

“Northumberland Fusiliers. I knew him. I served with him in Afghanistan. He was a friend. Disappeared shortly before I was shot and discharged. We all thought he’d been killed on patrol.”

“Seems he got a better offer.”

“Recruited by MI6?” Greg wonders.

“Yes, and working a case with Smart. Harriet Watson rounded out the trio.”

“Steady on. That’s a bit of a stretch, innit?” 

“Is it? We just saw her take Smart’s case.”

“He’s right, Greg. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. She could’ve hidden it all while I was at school and then Afghanistan. We never reconciled after I came back.”

John’s eyes stare down at nothing in particular when he finishes his sentence. Instead of the walls of the video room, he sees Harry from years ago and the row they had the last time he saw her before shipping out. He hears the hurtful words they said. Not a day has gone by where he hasn’t wanted to take them back. A gentle touch on his arm draws John back into the video room and the present. He looks at Sherlock.

“What happened, John?” he asks in a soft voice. The doctor looks at his friends and sighs sadly.

“Harry pushed me out of her life. Our parents were dead. It had just been the two of us for a long time and I was about to go off to a war zone. I thought she was just trying to protect herself. To break ties in case I didn’t come back. I thought we’d be fine when I got shot, that she’d just say I told you so and we’d laugh it off. But she didn’t want to see me. We had a terrible row and I left. I came back to London, settled in, and never tried to reach her again.”

“Anger may have been her motivation when you left, but I believe she sent you away upon your return so you wouldn’t learn of her work with MI6. Or be endangered by it,” he continues in a voice so gentle neither John nor Greg can scarcely believe Sherlock is the person speaking. “She didn’t want you to become a target, John. She was protecting you.”

“And the only way to do it was to make anyone watching think she didn’t give a toss, me included,” John sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Christ, I can’t even imagine how much that killed her.”

“I’m sure it hurt her deeply. But she knew you would be safe and that was her solace,” he meets John’s eyes. “The two of you are very much alike.”

“Were alike.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock looks at him sincerely.

The door to the room opens again and Sally pokes her head in this time, looking deadly serious. Greg darts over and out the door, muttering all the way.

“We need to catch this bloody bastard before he kills anyone else.”

Sally starts to close the door, but stops and gives John a small smile.

“John,” she nods.

“Sally.” She closes the door soundly. John returns his eyes to Sherlock to see him staring with a cocked brow, a deduction in full swing. “What?”

“I rather think she fancies you.”

“She knows we’re together.”

“Does she?”

“Oh, come on,” John replies, incredulous. “How could she not?”

Sherlock just rolls his eyes and looks away. John takes a step closer, sensing a storm brewing in his mate. When he speaks, it’s in a softer voice.

“That’s not what’s troubling you.”

“No.”

“What is it?” he takes another step toward the detective. “Something with Harry?”

“I fear someone else is behind Smart’s death. And now this Arthur Martin.”

“But Harry…”

“And Standish were tortured by Moriarty. Of that, I have no doubt. But the assassin killed Smart and Martin. Moriarty could have chosen to target Martin to get information about you, but the assassin got to him first.”

“But why couldn’t Moriarty have hired the assassin?”

“And miss the opportunity to torture Martin and obtain more information? And why bother with Smart? No, John, I believe this is the work of two different men with crossed purposes,” Sherlock straightens his spine and shares a grave look with his doctor. “We must accept the possibility, and prepare for the reality, that we may be looking for another culprit. One as dangerous as Moriarty.”

***

A few days later, Molly Hooper works in her laboratory at St. Bart’s. She performed the autopsies of Abigail Smart, Arthur Martin, and Jason Standish. Although she did not conduct Harriet Watson’s, Greg requested the results and photos be sent to her for examination. Molly may be a seasoned expert and one of the very best at St. Bart’s, perhaps all of London, but even she felt her stomach turn when she saw what was done to John’s sister. Harry fought hard not to give Moriarty anything and was made to suffer dearly for her efforts. 

Greg and Sherlock had both seen the file too, but they had all agreed to keep it from John. None of them were prepared to see him read it, but Molly had been the driving force behind keeping it out of his hands. She just couldn’t imagine it doing anything but destroying John and with all the pain she had already caused him, she couldn’t bear more and wasn’t sure he could either. Fortunately, Greg and Sherlock agreed that John did not need to weather another blow.

After Martin’s body was found, the case hit a bit of a cold spot, not to mention Sherlock still avoids her whenever he can. As a result, Molly has not seen John or Sherlock, or even Greg. Not that she has really noticed. Her time is, as always, busy with cases. At the moment a knock sounds on the lab door, she’s just getting into some test results regarding a murder at the Blackfriars tube station. Expecting a coworker, she keeps her post and merely grants access in a loud voice, continuing to work. She is surprised to see John’s head pop in when she glances up.

“John?” she straightens up and begins to scuttle out from behind the lab table. “Come in, come in!”

“Hi, Molly. How are you?” he asks, hugging her back.

“Great. You?”

“Good, good. Are you busy? Can we talk?”

“Of course. I always have time for friends.”

“Ta very much.” Molly motions to a stool and takes a seat on a matching one after John sits. He smiles, almost a little nervously. “I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem at all. So, what is it? Do you need something?”

“Yeah,” he puffs out a breath. “Yeah, I need a favor.”

“John, no,” Molly’s smile immediately turns down. “John, I can’t let you see Harriet’s file. I just can’t.”

“What? No, that’s… I still don’t understand why I can’t see my own sister’s file, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“What do you need?” She wears a very serious and determined expression, like she would alter gravity itself to help John. He gazes at her for a moment, touched by the strength of her feeling for him, before clearing his throat and getting down to business.

“I… Well, I don’t even know where to begin. It all sounds so odd, but it is Moriarty, after all.”

“Moriarty? I heard he’s back in the country,” Molly’s brow furrows. “You haven’t..seen..him?”

“No. No, I haven’t. Mycroft’s reports say he’s nowhere near London. Not sure that I believe it, but…” John bites his lip. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m here either. Look, Moriarty said something about having marked me. I’ve been trying to check my body over whenever Sherlock isn’t looking, but I haven’t found a thing. Well, nothing beyond the scars on my arm and leg anyway.”

“You don’t think that’s what he’s talking about? “

“No,” shaking his head, ”He’s evil, Molly, pure evil. If he says he marked me, it’s not as simple as a few scars and I need another set of eyes to figure it out. Would you give me a once over?”

“Of course, John. I’d be happy to,” her eyes widen as soon as the words leave her mouth. “Oh, no. No, I mean… I’m happy to help, not to look at you, at your… I mean, do you want me to look over...everything?”

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

“Oh, good. I mean… That’s not what I mean.”

“It’s okay, Molly,” John laughs. “I know what you mean and I appreciate the help.”

“Thank god,” she replies with a relieved smile. “Sometimes I really do put my foot in it.”

“Don’t we all?” John winks. They share a quick laugh and, for the first time since John was kidnapped, Molly feels like things between them are approaching what they once were.

“Come on then. We can’t do this in the lab. I know an exam room we can use.”

“Lead the way,” he gestures to the door.

Nearly two hours later, Molly has meticulously examined every inch of John’s body and hasn’t found a thing that seems out of the ordinary. As she looks over the last few areas, namely the contents of his pants, it occurs to John that the exam isn’t unlike the autopsies Molly conducts. The thought makes him shiver. Molly raises her brows and straightens up.

“Are you okay? Are you cold?”

“Yes. No,” he smiles at his own nerves showing, “I’m fine. All done? Anything?”

“Sorry, John,” she sighs. “Not a thing.”

“Damn. I was afraid of that.”

“Are you certain he doesn’t mean the scars?”

“Can’t be,” John shakes his head. “He made it sound much more meaningful than a few small scars.”

“I’m sorry, John. I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t see a thing.”

“Well, thanks just the same.” He slides off the table and into his pants in one swift movement. “There has to be something, Molly. I’ll find it eventually.”

“John, wait!” Molly gasps suddenly, her brown eyes wide. She grabs his scarred arm, her eyes running over its length eagerly.

“What? D’you see something?”

She pulls a pen from the pocket of her lab coat and starts drawing lines on his arm, connecting the scars together. When she is finished, they both read the word she has written on the canvas of his flesh.

“MINE.” John looks from his arm to Molly and back. “Jesus Christ.”

Just then the door to the exam room swings open and Sherlock steps in. A look of total bewilderment comes over his face at the scene before him. John, in nothing but his pants, standing very close to Molly Hooper, who has her hands wrapped around his arm. Until he enters, that is, at which point she releases John and puts her hands on her hips.

“How did you get in here? I locked that door.”

“Anyone could pick that lock,” he replies matter-of-factly. His look of confusion cast aside and his typical demeanor adopted once again, the detective raises a brow. He looks John up and down with a glint of approval in his eyes. John looks down at himself and then at Molly, who is standing quite close. His eyes widen in shock and he takes a step back, bumping into the exam table.

“God, Sherlock, this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Of that, I am certain,” he takes a step forward. “Would you like to tell me what you  **are** doing?”

Knowing he can’t avoid it, John simply holds out his arm and sighs. He isn’t entirely sure he would’ve kept it from Sherlock anyway, so might as well show him now. Sherlock is at his side in a single step.

“He said he marked me,” John says by way of explanation. “I asked Molly for help. This is what she found.”

Sherlock frowns deeply, studying John’s arm carefully. Running his fingertips over the scars and writing lightly, the detective tamps down the anger brewing inside. The audacity of this bastard has always been clear, but this… He meets John’s gaze with intense silver eyes.

“You said he was stabbing wildly.”

“I guess he wasn’t,” the doctor shrugs. Molly’s pager sounds and she checks it quickly.

“Oh, I have to go. Just check on some x-rays I ordered. I’ll be right back.”

She slips out the door and the two men find themselves alone in the quiet room with only the buzzing lights overhead to fill the silence. John casts a glance at the taller man and sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. He paces away towards the far wall. A spike of unexpected fear racks Sherlock’s body. He must console the man before him, give him some assurance. Seeing John so troubled eats at the very fiber of his heart.

“John, it will be all right.”

“How?!” he shouts, rounding on him. “How the hell is it going to be all right with that lunatic…” He stops short, seeing Sherlock’s startled face. John takes a deep, calming breath and pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. Sherlock stands much closer when he opens them again. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” He pauses for another moment to gather himself. “He said…he told me I belong to him, that he marked me. Now I know how. I’m just so… God, Sherlock, he’s never going to leave me alone, is he?”

“He will after I kill him.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t even say that,” John stares him down. Sherlock meets his eyes calmly, but John sees right through the facade to the burning fury inside. Reading on John’s face that he isn’t hiding anything, Sherlock allows himself to burst.

“What do you expect of me? After all he has done, and continues to do, to you.”

“I know, Sherlock, I know,” placing his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Much as I’d like to kill him myself, and I know I’ve said it too, but I won’t commit murder. I won’t let him separate us again in any way or for any length of time. I won’t accept that. Even if it means living in a world with Jim in it. Moriarty in it! God damn it!”

John can’t help but stomp in anger as he releases Sherlock and moves away. Desperate to help, Sherlock surges forward, grabbing John’s shoulders and squaring them. He searches those gorgeous deep blue eyes that gleam with frustration and finds them easing a bit just at the sight of his own in such determination. His long fingers slide up John’s neck and cup his cheeks.

“All right,” he murmurs in his silky baritone. “I promise you I will not kill him. He will not put any locks or bolts between us, literal or figurative. I will keep nothing from you.”

“You’d make me that promise?” John gives him a small, conspiratory smile

“I knew you’d insist,” he shrugs. John looks at him almost shyly.

“You know me so well.”

“I do.”

Sherlock’s body suddenly shivers from the power of his own words and the images they bring forth from his mind palace of a future in a garden. He tips forward in reality and kisses John softly, just as he does in this most treasured vision. But here, he is still only John’s flatmate when the warm press of lips moves away from his own. Quickly closing off that wing again, he adopts a jovial expression and smirks at John.

“Now, if I weren’t to get caught…”

“Sherlock,” John warns. His detective laughs and kisses John again, longer and a little harder. When their lips part, a mere fraction of space between them, John breathes heavily and stares into Sherlock’s eyes. He captures the detective’s mouth once more in a searing kiss and doesn’t stop.

As they continue, arms curling around each other, tongues winding together, Sherlock lowers his hands and lifts John onto the exam table. He mouths down John’s neck to his bare chest, his fingers gliding to a taught nipple, his warm palm flat against the hot skin stretched over John’s pectoral. Feeling the muscle flex beneath his touch, Sherlock licks at the puckered skin with the tip of his tongue. A moan rises from John’s throat, sweet and indecent.

“Sherlock,” catching his breath, “Sherlock, stop it. Molly could walk in at any…”

Sherlock slides down, licking John’s hot skin all the way, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of John’s pants and pulling them down his thighs. His lips find John’s cock, bathing it in licks and open-mouthed kisses.

“Jesus,” John’s head falls back in sheer ecstacy. The rest of his body follows.

Sherlock hollows his cheeks and sucks hard, his head bobs rhythmically. John’s eyes are tight shut, his mouth wide open. His world has shrunk down to only Sherlock and his glorious mouth. God, he is extraordinarily talented and he knows it, the bastard. John plans on cursing, and fairly loudly, but the crinkle of paper on the exam table pulls him back to the here and now. He braces himself up on his elbows and gasps out a warning.

“Sherlock…we really can’t…Molly…be back…”

Sherlock looks up at him, a flash of hungry silver. He growls dangerously and John comes suddenly, a faint noise and a sigh floating from his lips. Before John can even think or move an inch, Sherlock’s mouth is back on his in a salty, near frantic kiss. John strokes his fingers through his detective’s lush curls and soon the kiss slows into something soft and steady.

When Sherlock finally pulls back to look at John, he wears a timid smile of embarrassment. He covers John’s softening cock with his pants once again and wipes his own mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry. I…I hope you can forgive my…possessive outburst.”

“You can have as many outbursts as you like,” John rests his hands on broad shoulders. “You’ll get no objections from me. Just give us a chance to recover. I’m not young anymore.”

“Nonsense. You are only three years older than I and still in very good physical condition,” looking John’s torso up and down approvingly, and lowering his tone an octave. “Very good.”

“Stop it,” John smiles, “and thank you, but I really need to get dressed before Molly walks in.”

The door suddenly opens and Molly’s voice curses into the room.

“Oh, god! Oh, I’m sorry. Sorry. I thought you’d be dressed by now. No, I didn’t even think.”

Sherlock pulls John to his feet and turns to face her. John quickly closes the room’s privacy curtain to get dressed, hoping his detective will be civil. Fortunately, he is not disappointed.

“It’s quite all right, Molly. Think nothing of it,” Sherlock’s voice is clipped and stiff to match his posture. “Thank you for complying with John’s request. We both appreciate it.”

“It was the least I could do,” she replies, swallowing her surprise. “I would do anything for you two. I feel so responsible.”

“Don’t, Molly,” John pulls the curtain aside and emerges fully clothed. “I know not everyone shares my opinion, you included, but you had no choice and certainly had no idea what Moriarty was planning.”

“That’s kind of you to say, but…”

“But nothing. Please don’t worry about it. We’re still friends and we always will be.”

“Thanks, John,” she blushes. “I’ll take that to heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, friends. This chapter isn't action-packed adventure by any means, but things you all need to know. Trust me on that. 
> 
> Thanks so much for all the awesome input on the first chapter! I love reading all your thoughts and seeing what you think might be ahead for our Boys. Thank you all for being readers too. I know I keep saying this, but you all mean the world to me. I just can't believe all the positive responses and hits and fans each part has gotten. I never expected this and I owe it all to you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> Well, I'm working on chapter 3. I'll get it out as soon as I can.  
> Love to you all, Jane


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope no one minds another chapter coming out so quickly. This is a shorter one and, sorry, no spoilers.

A few nights later, after a mind-blowing shag, Sherlock wakes suddenly. The bedroom is dark. He can feel John’s arm draped lifelessly around his waist. He instinctively snuggles back into John’s body, uncertain as to why he woke from such sound sleep until a flash of lightning illuminates the room for a split second. The solution found, his body begins to relax again, but his nagging mind prods at him. John’s arm, his entire body, feels so boneless. Why is he so relaxed? Sherlock tries to ignore his mind’s insistence that he check on John, certain that it means nothing. Closing his eyes to sleep, he instead finds himself analyzing John’s movements, or rather lack thereof. Unable to turn off the worry, Sherlock finally turns over to face his lover. The only movement he sees is the doctor’s arm slipping from Sherlock’s own body and flopping onto the bed between them.

“John?” He touches John’s shoulder somewhat firmly, expecting to wake him, but he merely falls onto his back without stirring. This is wrong. Sherlock shakes him. “John.”

A feeling of panic rises within as Sherlock sits up and presses his fingers to John’s neck. The pulse he finds is irregular and John’s breathing is shallow, and labored.  _ Shit! _ He scrabbles for his mobile and dials emergency, all the while the same sentence runs through his mind.  _ Youhavetobeokay. Youhavetobeokay. _

“John!” he almost shouts. “John, can you hear me?”

***

Greg rushes into a hospital waiting room on the sixth floor of Bart’s and sees Sherlock pacing furiously on its far side. He heads for the disgruntled detective, who does not stop moving even to look at him. The detective phoned him two hours ago to tell him that John was unresponsive and they were on their way to hospital. Greg has been in panic mode ever since, trying to finish with the crime scene he was forced from bed to investigate and get to his friends as quickly as possible. 

“I came as soon as I could. How is he?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“What happened?”

“I awoke suddenly. I thought because of the thunderstorm. Now I believe it may have been an intruder. I tried to wake John. His pulse and breathing were irregular.”

“Drugged?”

“Yes.”

“Christ, Sherlock, if you hadn’t woke up…”

“John would have been taken. In spite of all assurances, and in direct contradiction to the evidence, that Moriarty is not in London.”

“Evidence? What evidence?”

“An apple, marred by a message and left in our flat for John to find.”

“And you’re only  **just** telling me this? What the hell, Sherlock?!”

The detective doesn’t respond and continues to pacing furiously. Damn Mycroft. Is he so incapable of locating Moriarty that he cannot prevent John from being taken from his own home? He IS the fucking British Government! His connections and resources are limitless. Finding someone of even Moriarty’s cunning should be..unless… 

Sherlock’s thoughts are interrupted when Molly suddenly bursts into the room and steps up close. Her face is a mixture of fear and concern. She glances toward the door as if hoping no one followed her and then meets Sherlock’s eyes.

“John is in no danger,” she says in an urgent and quiet voice.

“Moriarty came for him tonight, Molly,” Greg huffs incredulously, inserting himself into the conversation. “He sent someone for him, and if Sherlock hadn’t have…” His voice dies in his throat when he sees the detective’s face, red with fury. Neither of them needs Molly to connect the dots, but she continues to explain.

“Moriarty didn’t drug him.” Both men stiffen at her words. She watches Sherlock’s face as the door opens behind her and she knows Mycroft Holmes has entered. She adds apologetically, “It was to protect you.”

With his jaw set, Sherlock marches over to Mycroft and lays him out with one punch. Greg is at the detective’s side in an instant to keep him from pouncing on his brother. Molly rushes to help the elder Holmes to his feet. The two men stare one another down. Sherlock, the portrait of rage and Mycroft, smug and annoyed with a bloody lip.

“You son of a bitch!”

“You should have expected this, Sherlock. I said I would do everything within my means to protect you.”

Sherlock lurches toward him again, intending to knock him to the ground bodily, but Greg holds tight to his shoulders and manages to keep him away from his brother.

“Excuse me,” a voice comes from behind them. They all turn to see a physician’s assistant in the doorway, wearing a concerned expression. Greg releases Sherlock and produces his ID as he takes a step toward the woman.

“It’s all right. I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade. No need for security. It’s all sorted.”

“Oh, good. It’s nice to meet you Detective Inspector, and thank you,” looking far more at ease, her eyes shift to the other two men in the room. “Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes?” the brothers Holmes say together. Sherlock glares daggers at Mycroft and looks back at the PA. “I am Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’m Sheila Baker, Dr. Wilson’s assistant. He asked me to tell you that you can see Dr. Watson now,” she smiles warmly and gestures out the door. “He’s going to be fine.”

Sherlock walks to PA Baker hastily. She eyes the others as he approaches, but she smiles as soon as she returns her attention to him and leads him out of the room. Sherlock begins gathering information as soon as they are walking down the hall.

“It was a sedative?”

“Yes, the dose used was too high. It put him in respiratory distress, but he’ll be just fine now, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock stops dead right there in the hall. Much as he complains about Mycroft and his minions, his brother would never employ someone so incompetent as to give an overdose of a simple sedative. Something is not right and Sherlock has a very bad feeling.

“Mr. Holmes, are you coming?” Baker frowns and takes a step toward him. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he rushes to catch her up. They continue down the hall and take a left. “Is John awake?”

“Yes, he just regained consciousness. He’s asking for you.” She stops in front of a door marked 503 and smiles kindly. “It’s good you found your husband when you did. Take all the time you need.“

“Thank you.”

She walks away. Sherlock stares at the door with uncertainty. He desperately wants to see John. The irrational, sentiment-ridden part of his brain won’t fully believe John is all right until Sherlock sees for himself and the rest of his brain is screaming at him. Something is off, but he can’t quite figure out what it is. Either way, he must see John. He opens the door quietly and steps into the room. John’s head turns immediately.

“John?”

“I’m fine, Sherlock.” The detective rushes forward and envelopes the smaller man in his arms tightly. At another time of life, he would have cursed himself for the obvious desperation in this hug, but he hardly cares anymore. He will let John see him, all of him, even the things he most wants to hide. “Really, I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

“Are you certain?” he pulls back a bit to meet John’s eyes. “You very nearly weren’t breathing.”

“I’m fine. They just want to keep me a while for observation, that’s all.”

Sherlock searches John’s eyes and nods warily. John smiles, just the sight of his flatmate is a comfort. Instead of returning the smile, Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs. For a moment, he looks relieved, but it is quickly replaced by fury.

“Sherlock?”

“Bloody Mycroft!” His eyes snap open. His words are quiet and vehement. “I returned the muscle relaxant after I…after that night. I informed him, in no uncertain terms, that I would never use it again. I might have known he’d send one of his incompetents to continue administering it.”

“Sherlock.”

“I should have expected it. Watched for it.”

“Sherlock.”

“Heartless bastard will do anything to further his own agenda.”

“Sherlock, it wasn’t him. It was me.” The detective stops abruptly. He stops talking, stops moving, everything just stops. Silence quickly fills the room. John swallows uneasily. He can’t keep this from Sherlock any longer. It has eaten him alive since the moment he started. “He spoke to me about it shortly after you returned everything. He asked if I would administer it myself.” Sherlock’s eyes are wide with disbelief. John continues cautiously. “I agreed.”

The  detective just stares. His mouth opens, but he says nothing. His eyes ask why, pleading with John to explain the secret, the betrayal. When he has gone out of his way to keep nothing from John...why?

“It was to protect you, Sherlock,” John’s voice is urgent. He starts speaking quickly, knowing he may not get to say all he needs to otherwise. “I’d already hurt you, so many times and it could happen again at any time. If I don’t wake up, if I don’t snap out of it, just once, I could kill you.” Sherlock’s brow furrows as if in pain and he pulls out of John’s embrace to stand. John grabs his hand and clutches it hard. He can’t let him go, not like this. “I couldn’t take that chance. I can’t.”

Sherlock’s lip quivers and his eyes go soft, hopeless. He worms his hand out of John’s grip and steps away. As seconds pass, John wishes he would look away, even if only for a moment. But Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on him and burn through John with their questions and profound sadness.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry,” his voice catching. “I should have told you. We should’ve talked about it. I should’ve… I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” shaking his head, “I must’ve mis-measured or…”

Sherlock backs away, shaking his head, hands covering his mouth. He turns away.

“Sherlock?” panic seeping into his voice, “Sherlock!”

Without hesitating, the detective is out of the room. Once he is safely on the other side, his back rests against the door. With his eyes closed, he sinks down until he is sitting on the floor, his legs bent before him. Folding his arms over his knees, he buries his face in them and weeps silently.

Back inside the room, John stares at the closed door with pained eyes. Tears drip down his cheeks. His mind almost unable to comprehend what just happened, he falls back on the bed, his eyes clenched shut in despair. Sherlock is not coming back. Will he ever come back?

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” John curses angrily in a loud voice. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock can hear him on the other side of the door and twists his body around to face it. He reaches for the knob and stops. What can he say to John? How can he even express himself when he doesn’t understand the havoc that has taken over his mind? Shaking his head, he rises gracefully and trudges away. Minutes later, he appears in the waiting room. Molly rushes toward him, seeing his pallid face.

“My god, Sherlock, what is it? Is John all right?”

He doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t look at any of them. He ignores everything around and keeps walking.

“Sherlock?” Greg tries and gets no response. He looks at the others after Sherlock has left the room. “I’ll go after him.”

“No, Inspector. If I know anything about my brother, it’s when he needs to be alone.”

Greg makes to argue, but Molly stops him. They talk quietly as Mycroft exits the room. He walks down the hall and turns left, going right to the room he knows is John’s. He knocks sharply and waits a moment to let the doctor collect himself before entering the room. John’s eyes are wide with hope when Mycroft first comes in, but they immediately darken upon seeing him.

“Get out.”

“We need to talk, John.”

“What the hell makes you think I give a  **shit** about what  **you** think we should do?” he demands. Mycroft doesn’t answer. Instead, he studies John intently.

“You told him.”

“Of course I bloody told him! How could I not?!”

“Some things are better left unknown.”

“And  **that** is why you and I have nothing in common.” John’s furious voice tears through the air between them. Mycroft opens his mouth to speak, something trite no doubt, but John interrupts. “Would you lie?”

“I tell Sherlock what he needs to know.”

“I’m not talking about Sherlock,” he replies fiercely. Mycroft eyes the doctor and leans on his umbrella. In that instant, his entire demeanor changes. He answers in a quiet, threatening tone.

“Consider your next words carefully, John. You are treading very near the fire.”

“Fuck you,” John doesn’t hesitate and it actually makes Mycroft flinch. “Would. You. Lie.”

At first John doesn’t think he’s going to answer. The older man merely stands before him, glaring  with hard eyes and seething.

“No,” he finally snarls. John watches him for a moment. It is the most human he has ever seen Mycroft in the whole of their association. His anger fades a bit.

“Maybe you do have a soul then.”

“Don’t be too hasty.”

A corner of John’s mouth curves up, but quickly drops again and he looks away. He has really bollocksed things up this time. Mycroft’s icy exterior thaws a little and he takes a step closer to the bed.

“I’m sorry, John. I truly am,” he says sincerely. “I never should have asked you to help.”

“S’okay. I didn’t have to agree,” John shakes his head. “It’s my own fault. I keep asking Sherlock for honesty and trust. And then I turn around and lie to him, keep secrets.” He looks at the ceiling again and sighs. “I fucked up. I only hope he’ll talk to me when I get home. If he’s even there. “

“Sherlock would never leave Baker Street,” Mycroft replies. He watches John for a few minutes, taking in his tired and sad expression, and feels something he has not felt in quite some time. The man lying in the bed before him is absolutely perfect for his little brother. Mycroft can see that now. John is everything their mother always wanted for both of them. He loves Sherlock with all his soul and would do anything to protect him. That desire to protect has placed a rift between the detective and his blogger, one that John is afraid cannot be overcome, and Mycroft feels an incredible amount of empathy for them both in this moment. So much so, that his shoulders feel heavy under its weight. He takes yet another step closer.

“I’m sorry, John,” he nearly whispers. Those deep blue eyes meet his and he gives John a small smile. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

John nods his thanks and Mycroft leaves, closing the door behind. John frowns at the ceiling, retracing his whole bedroom routine. He shakes his head as he thinks it through for the umpteenth time.

“I just don’t understand how I could’ve overdosed,” he speaks quietly to himself. “I know what I measured out. There’s no way I made a mistake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feels! Writing the conversation between John and Sherlock in the hospital room nearly killed me, y'all. It made me so sad to think of these two in so much pain. When I read through and edited "Sherlock's lip quivers" just a few minutes ago, mine was doing the same. Oh, my poor boys. 
> 
> And poor Mycroft, right? I think it's safe to say that I haven't been entirely fair to him. Always distancing him from everyone else and from his own feelings, so cold and calculating. I've hinted at his emotions and we all know he cares deeply for Sherlock. Why else would he devote himself to Sherlock's protection? But here, we finally see a bit of his perspective. We finally see that he understands how important it is that John and Sherlock be together, how perfect they are for each other. Not only does their little domestic sadden him, but he must be terribly conflicted knowing that he will be complicit in John's eventual capture.
> 
> Ug. Such a beautiful disaster.
> 
> Thank you again for all the love and support. I love having little comment conversations, so thanks to all who left one and even responded back. Every one of you, reader and commenter alike, makes me smile.  
> Love to you all, Jane


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quite a night at 221B.

Nearly three weeks have passed since John wound up in hospital and told Sherlock about his own self-sedation. He has not used the medication since that night, unable to face his flatmate if he did. Sherlock has not asked him to move out, as he expected, but he hasn’t really asked John to do anything. He has unequivocally refused to speak to John at all and generally ignores his presence as well. John has made many attempts to talk and has even had entire conversations with the detective, or rather AT the detective. Hopeless and convinced that Sherlock wants him to move out, but won’t say it, John has begun looking for another flat in the ads. He has found several distinct possibilities, but cannot bring himself to actually give one a look-over.

This particular evening of searching was interrupted when a knock came on the door. Now, he and Greg Lestrade sit in the dining area with mugs of tea. Greg studies John throughout the friendly small talk to try and get a handle on the situation. He doesn’t know all of the details, but he can tell it isn’t good. Guilt and their living arrangement are eating John alive.  

“Sorry I haven’t been around much. We’ve been swamped at the Yard. Sherlock thinks Moriarty’s behind it.”

“I’m sure he’s right,” John says quietly, almost to himself. His fingers fiddle with the mug sitting before him on the table. Greg leans over and rests his elbows on either side of his own mug.

“How are you? I’m surprised I haven’t seen more of you lately.”

“Are you, Greg?” John snaps at him. “Are you, really?”

John watches as Greg’s eyes go wide in shock. The heat of his mood quickly drains from his body and he sighs. Greg doesn’t deserve his frustration or his temper.

“I’m sorry. I just…”

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s bad,” John shakes his head. “He doesn’t want my help on cases. He doesn’t want me around at all.” 

“He said that?”

“No. He hasn’t said a word to me since that night.”

“What?” Greg asks in disbelief. “He hasn’t spoken to you for three weeks?”

“No. We never talk. I’ve talked at him, but he doesn’t listen.”

“Well…he just needs time, is all.”

“I don’t think that’s it, Greg. He’s just not interested in salvaging this relationship,” John sighs again and gives Greg a solemn look. “I’m looking at flats.”

“No,” he leans forward farther. “No, don’t do that. Don’t run.”

“What else can I do? He’s so distant. He doesn’t want me.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. He’s loaded to his fingertips with love for you. Give him time. As much as he needs.” Greg fixes him with serious eyes. “You hurt him, John, deeply. And he doesn’t get close to anyone. God knows if anything like this has ever happened to him before. He probably has no idea what to do.”

“God, this is exactly  **why** he doesn’t get close to anyone, Greg,” John shakes his head grimly. “I don’t know what to do. He spends all of his time on cases with you and when he is in the flat, he’s as far away from me as possible. Even when he’s in the same room. He hasn’t gone so far as to ask me to move my things back into my old room, but…”

“Well, that’s something, isn’t it?” Greg interrupts, trying to put a positive spin on things. John is not looking directly at Greg, so he doesn’t notice Greg’s eyes suddenly sliding to look just over John’s shoulder at the silent detective behind.

“He always sleeps on the sofa. Always. Never with me. Not anymore.”

“Oh.”

“I think he’s even slept in my old room in favor of spending any time in my company.” He looks at the DI again and scrubs his hands over his face. His voice is ragged. “I’m a selfish bastard, Greg. He gave me his heart, something so precious, he never gives to anyone and I…I lied to him. I held my heart back, didn’t trust him with it. I did exactly what he’s sheltered himself from all these years. What Mycroft always warned him against. He took a chance with me and look where it’s gotten him.” John’s eyes are glistening with tears and he doesn’t even care that Greg can tell. The truth bites into his skin like a knife. “He hates me, Greg, and he should. He should…because I deserve it.”

Greg remains silent. His eyes drift slowly from one man to the other. John puts his elbows on the table and touches his forehead with his fingertips.

“I’m just so lost. If he won’t talk to me…”

“I don’t hate you, John.”

John curses and leaps out of his chair, spinning to see Sherlock standing just behind with a solemn expression on his beautiful face. 

“Jesus. How long have you been there?”

“Long enough.”

“You’re too fucking quiet.” The frustrated words burst from John’s lips before he can think. “You know that?”

“I’ll just be off then,” Greg mumbles, standing to go.

“No!” Sherlock insists, stepping closer. “I called the Yard and they said you were here. I have new information concerning a case.”

“It can wait.”

“It can’t wait,” he glances at John sourly. “We have nothing to talk about.”

“Damn it, Sherlock.  **Talk** to him. Running from it won’t solve it and that’s something you both need to learn.” 

“This from the man who…”

“No, you don’t,” Greg gets right up in his business, a finger pointed accusatorially in his face. “Don’t even start.” Greg glares up at the detective and then strides to the door. “You can tell me about the case later.”

He disappears, his footsteps thumping down the hall. Sherlock takes a few swift steps to the door, looking after him petulantly. He makes no move to speak to or acknowledge John’s presence. John sighs, clears the table, and walks toward the kitchen.

“I meant what I said.”

“Oh,” John huffs, turning to face the man’s back. “What’s that then?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“And you don’t trust me either.”

“I never said that,” the detective spins on his heel.

“You haven’t  **said** anything.” Sherlock sighs in frustration and looks away. John’s expression softens. “Could we please just talk? Just a bit?”

Sherlock meets his eyes with an icy glare and remains defiantly silent. John’s whole body seems to sag, hope sinking away into nothing.

“Right.” John turns away and goes into the kitchen. He puts the mugs in the sink with some plates, pours out the teapot, and starts the water running. He doesn’t notice that Sherlock followed and goes about his business, squirting soap into a sponge, his mind full of troubling thoughts. Sherlock watches without a sound while John washes and rinses everything in the sink, one by one.

“It’s not a matter of trust, John,” Sherlock’s silky voice sounds loud behind him. “Or hate.”

John looks up from the washing, wide-eyed, his body still. He can feel his flatmate’s presence filling the room, his eyes on John’s back.

“I trust you implicitly.”

“How could you possibly trust me, Sherlock?” he growls, his frustration showing. “I told you bold-faced lies. That is the very definition of someone who is  **not** trustworthy.”

“You had your reasons,” he replies dispassionately.

“That doesn’t make it okay!”

“No, it doesn’t,” his voice is deadly serious. “I suggest you  **not** do it again.”

“I won’t,” John replies sincerely. The room falls silent. John just hovers where he stands, his mind harkening back to another conversation they had that ended with these exact words. He is suddenly filled with the despair at the thought that they have stagnated and their relationship will advance no further. But it has to. It has to! John has to take the chance of confronting it head-on. 

With these thoughts in mind, John clenches his hands into fists and steels himself. He isn’t sure he wants to face Sherlock, but he must. He  **must** . Still, he hesitates, his head full of thoughts and spinning furiously.  _ Fuck it. I can’t run. Not anymore.  _ He wets his lips and turns his head in an attempt to look over his shoulder. He still cannot see Sherlock.

“What is it then?” John asks quietly.

“Sorry?”

“If it’s not a matter of trust, what is it?”

More silence. He hears his flatmate shift his weight and shuffle his feet. Sherlock huffs and John can hear the disdain in his voice when he answers.

“I can’t say it without sounding like an idiot.”

John’s body stiffens. He closes his eyes and keeps his back turned, his hands resting on the counter. His voice comes out clipped and angry.

“Just say it, Sherlock. I’ve had enough of the silent treatment.”

“My heart, John!” the detective nearly shouts, nearly cutting off John’s last words. There’s a deliberate pause while both men hold their breaths. Sherlock’s voice is quiet when he continues. “It’s my heart…breaking.”

“Oh god, Sherlock.” John finally turns to face the man and jumps back immediately, his hips slamming into the counter, having found Sherlock just inches away. “Jesus Christ.”

“All hearts are broken,” Sherlock says, unfazed by John’s reaction. “That’s what Mycroft always says. I never thought it would be  **my** heart. I hide it, John. I have never let anyone touch it. Until you. And now…” running a hand through his curls, “I don’t even know how to process what I feel right now. I have  **never** felt anything like this before and it’s suffocating. My chest clenches tighter and tighter, and when I think about talking to you, trying to make it right… I don’t know where to begin, and my chest hurts more and more with every day that passes.” His big, silver eyes plead for clarity, his voice sounding borderline frantic. “You don’t know what to do? Neither do I. And I’ve never felt that way before. I don’t do feelings! But I…don’t want to lose you. I’m…I...”

John can’t take his eyes off of his detective. He hangs on every shuddering word tumbling from Sherlock’s lips. He can scarcely believe what he hears. With tears streaming down his face, John takes Sherlock’s warm hands into his own.

“You have given me so much. Parts of yourself no one has ever seen, defying Mycroft and everything logic has ever told you. I didn’t respect that. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry,” John shakes his head and straightens up in determination. “But that’s not enough. I lied to you. I betrayed your trust.”

“Yes.”

“I won’t do it again,” John is steadfast. “I give you my word.”

Looking deeply into one another’s eyes, they feel something release. The very air between them changes, seems to shift. Sherlock’s expression melts into something so tender, John feels his own heart stutter. His thumbs begin rubbing circles on the palms of Sherlock’s hands.

“I’d like to regain your trust. If you’ll let me,” John raises his brows high. His face looks so innocent and genuine. “Will you give me that chance?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies without blinking. “I’d like that.”

John’s lips turn up into a small smile. For the first time since that fateful night, he dares to hope they have a chance to be happy again. Sherlock’s mouth quirks up and he leans in to kiss John gently. It feels amazing. Neither man can help but close his eyes. Sherlock’s hot breath caresses John’s face, his plush lips moving against John’s. It feels like a dream, like going home. When their lips part, Sherlock lets out a long sigh.

“I’ve missed you, John.”

John rests his forehead against Sherlock’s and exhales deeply.

“I’ve missed you too.”

Sherlock wiggles his hands out of John’s grasp and lifts the smaller man’s chin with gentle fingers. When their lips meet again, all of Sherlock’s doubts vanish from the palace and a new candle sparks in their place. It’s a light that he knows will grow into something so bright no wing will be able to contain it.

As the kiss comes to a delicious end, Sherlock carefully slides his hands around John’s waist and pulls him close. John looks up into his detective’s eyes with a promise on his lips. Before he can say a word, Sherlock’s mobile sounds suddenly, startling them both and breaking the spell. Sherlock’s hands drop and he moves away from John to answer it quickly.

“Sorry,” comes Greg’s voice. “There’s been a murder. I need you.”

“Text me the address. I’ll leave immediately.” He ends the call and pockets the phone. His face is closed off again when he meets John’s eyes. “I’ll be late. Don’t wait up.”

Without another word, he turns and leaves the room. John remains still as a statue until he hears the flat door click shut. He sighs sadly and turns back to the washing.

***

Just after midnight, all is quiet outside of 221B, but a storm rages inside. Sherlock is still out of the flat on a case. John lies in their bed, thrashing to and fro in the throes of a nightmare. It is a nightmare like no other and he struggles to wake. He rolls violently onto his back, shaking his head, his arms stay at his sides as if immobile.

“No. It’s not,” he mumbles. His hair is soaked and clinging to his brow. Sweat drips down his face, which contorts in pain. His arms twitch at his sides. He is tied down in this terror and with no means of escape. John gasps and begs. “I can’t. Not alone. Please. No, Sherlock! SHERLOCK!”

The detective himself stands at the flat’s front door, having just entered to hear John screaming his name. He slams the door shut and runs to the bedroom at full tilt, throwing of his great coat as he goes and leaping onto the bed. Grasping John’s shoulders hurriedly with little consideration for his own safety, Sherlock shakes the sleeping man none too gently.

“John! John, wake up!”

John’s eyes snap open and look directly at Sherlock. In spite of putting zero thought into how to wake John, Sherlock had been prepared to defend himself. To dodge a fist or knock away hands reaching for his throat, but John is fully awake and aware. And scared out of his mind. Sherlock flinches when John’s arms fly up and around his body. Sitting up quickly, John hugs him tightly and buries his face in Sherlock’s collar.

“Oh god, Sherlock…Sherlock,” John gasps desperately. Tears well up in his eyes and stain Sherlock’s shirt.

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock whispers into his hair, holding him in a warm embrace. “It was only a nightmare. I’m here.”

John’s heaving chest suddenly stills against his own and, for one awful second, Sherlock thinks he may have stopped breathing. His wide eyes shift to look down at John’s head as a seemingly disembodied voice asks eerily.

“But for how long?”

“What?”

John pulls back to look at Sherlock, but doesn’t move his arms one bit. In fact, he maintains an iron grip over his detective. His expression is stern, but frightened. And then it changes on a dime, like everything from the dream thrusts its way to the front of John’s mind. Sherlock watches in shock as John’s deep blue eyes go from garden-variety fright to all-out panic.

“Don’t leave me. Please.”

“What? Why would I…?”

“I don’t what I’d do or how I’d go on, and Jim wouldn’t kill me. I’d wish he would. God, I’d want him to kill me, but he wouldn’t. He’d just keep torturing and fucking...”

“John!” Sherlock cuts off his words. He clasps his hands on John’s face and forces him to look directly into Sherlock’s silver eyes, which are hopefully calming, in spite of how he feels. He continues in a firm, but reassuring voice. “I am not going to leave you, John. I know things have been miserable. I should have tried talking about what’s between us long ago, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready.” He pauses to sigh and wipe the tears from John’s cheeks. “I know you’ve been looking at flats.”

“You know?” John asks, shock in his voice.

“I don’t want you to leave. I have never wanted you to leave. And Moriarty is not going to take you.”

John’s mouth closes abruptly and his lips tremble. He struggles to school his expression into something more John-like, but instead looks at Sherlock in a way he has never seen. John’s eyes are filled with desperation and the most desolate sorrow. He looks tired and scared and broken, all at the same time. Sherlock has never seen him in such a state after a nightmare or anything else. He once tried to imagine what John must have looked like when he was suicidal at his old bedsit, but even that did not come close to how his face looks now and it cuts Sherlock to his core. Even at his most vulnerable, John tries to wear the countenance of a captain and doctor. Someone not easily rattled, who has seen it all. Needless to say, Sherlock’s concern is more than a trifle.

“You were so angry,” John says in a broken voice. “You said he could have me. That he could have a liar like me.”

“Oh god, John,” wiping away new tears with his thumbs. “No.  **No.** I would never do that to you. Our troubles are just that. You have told me before that nothing is a deal breaker for you. The same is true for me.” He straightens his spine and says decisively. “I do not just  _ intend _ to spend my life with you. I  **will** spend my life with you, John Watson.”

“I know. I just… I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock can see a shift in John’s mind, back to guarded. His eyes lose the vulnerability and look more the way they are on a case or at the Yard. While he is not completely happy about the change in demeanor - Sherlock does not want John to hide himself away - but he knows John well enough to know he needs time to process before being truly ready to open up to Sherlock about the nightmare. 

“You are certain? Would you like some water?”

“No. No thanks. I’m good, really.”

“Very well,” the detective nods, climbs off the bed, and heads for the door. “Let me know if you need anything. Good night, John.”

“Sherlock, stay.” Sherlock stops with his back to John. “Please.”

“I can’t,” he turns his head slightly toward John. “I’m sorry.”

John watches as the door closes behind the retreating detective and then flops back onto the bed with a huff. He knows he’s fucked up. Now how the hell is he going to fix it? He stares at the ceiling and loses himself in thought before eventually drifting to sleep.

***

The wee hours of the morning find John sleeping restlessly when a familiar figure appears in the doorway. Sherlock treads softly to the bed and flicks on the dimmer of the two lamps in the room. He watches John, now lying peacefully as if sensing his presence. Sherlock carefully climbs onto the bed and sits on his knees next to John’s still body. He watches him breathe deeply, evenly, and a tear pricks behind his eye. Oh, how he loves this man. He would forgive him anything, would trust him to the end of his days. 

Sherlock sighs and smooths back John’s fringe from his forehead. There is no doubt in his mind that John can help heal his heart. That he will help Sherlock understand why his chest hurts whenever he sees John, in spite of there not actually being anything physically wrong with him. He just needs to move passed his fear of loving someone and move on with John. Before tonight, he hadn’t known if he would ever be able to muster the courage. But hearing what John said to Greg changed his mind and gave him the strength to confront his fears and insecurities.

And then he promptly retreated.

That was two hours ago. Sherlock spent them in the sitting room, reading John’s blog, and his different notes and observations. He spent the time relishing the man he loves, studying him through his written words and thoughts. Now his heart swells to what feels like five times its original size and what’s more, his chest doesn’t hurt anymore. This must be how that absurd little green beast felt when that village full of oddly shaped people-creatures started singing at Christmastime.

“John,” Sherlock smiles, speaking quietly and smoothing his fingertips along the tousled strands of John’s hair again. He touches John’s shoulder, right where it meets his neck. John stirs, and sort of puckers his lips and then relaxes them again. Sherlock’s soft smile grows as he watches the man before him, made even more adorable by his sleepy shuffles and sounds. Unable to resist, he leans in close and kisses John’s cheek lightly. The flushed skin is warm on his lips. Hovering next to John, Sherlock inhales deeply and lets out a sigh of pleasure. That scent fills his nostrils, his lungs. The unmistakable scent of John, all tea and cinnamon and something distinctly John.

Sherlock’s reverie is rudely interrupted and he pulls away swiftly when John turns his head suddenly to look at him. They watch one another for a moment, John’s eyes asking ‘What are you doing?’ and Sherlock’s saying ‘Sorry’. Then John smiles and gently cups Sherlock’s face, absurd cheekbones and all.

“Hi,” he breathes, “please tell me this isn’t a dream.”

“It’s not,” Sherlock whispers, shaking his head slowly, curls swishing to and fro. Their faces are so close that their noses brush once. Each searches the other’s eyes for a moment. When Sherlock’s lips touch John’s, a thousand lights go on in his mind palace and his body is filled with a warmth he hasn’t felt in weeks. With their lips still locked together, Sherlock hauls John up by the collar of his rumpled tee until he is sitting before the detective. He opens his mouth with the intention of sliding his tongue along John’s closed lips, but the doctor parts his at the same time and runs into Sherlock’s. Their tongues tentatively explore, seeking out encouragement…permission.

Each one finding what he’s looking for, the hesitation melts away and their tongues slide together delicately, tenderly. John exhales peacefully into the cool air of the room when their lips part. Sherlock presses his forehead against John’s and swallows audibly. Breathing through his mouth, deep breaths to restore the flow of oxygen to his brain before the dizziness overtakes him. He runs his hands up and down John’s arms, elbow to shoulder. He feels John’s grip on his waist tighten.

“John,” he whispers, wetting his lips, “let me stay.”

John lifts his head and meets those gleaming, silver eyes. His breath catches.

“Please, do.”

The two men lie down side by side, chest to chest, legs twined, arms around one another, and looking into each other’s eyes with sleepy smiles on their faces.

“I love you, John. More than I can ever say.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I know. You can stop telling me,” he sounds a bit haughty. All put on, of course. “It’s time to move on.”

“Okay,” John replies hesitantly. He bites his lip, eyes nervous. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” He observes John carefully with watchful eyes. “You know I trust you, John. Trust me. Most everything that’s troubled us stems from your keeping secrets.”

“Sherlock…”

“You know it’s true,” he touches John’s cheek with a feather touch. “I don’t blame you. You didn’t want to tell me what Moriarty did to you for fear of hurting me. That notion grew and invaded more and more aspects of our lives.” Sherlock pulls at John’s arms until his hands are clasping John’s. Sherlock’s soft gaze fixes John to the spot. “When I promised never to keep anything from you, I did not ask you to do the same, but some part of me assumed you would. When I learned how wrong I was, I...was hurt, in spite of understanding why you did it. I’ve been in a haze since then, trying to grasp feelings I have never felt before and I’m sorry for that.” He inhales deeply and fixes John with imploring eyes. “Trust me again, John. Trust yourself.”

John blinks, his eyes shining with tears. One breaks free and runs down passed his temple and onto the pillows. He holds Sherlock’s hands close and kisses his knuckles.

“I really don’t deserve you.”

“John,” Sherlock sighs, feigning boredom, “I have told you before that is absurd and you know how I hate repeating myself.”

A smile spreads across John’s face and he laughs quietly. Sherlock joins in with a grin. He kisses the back of John’s hand and speaks in a low, rumbling whisper.

“Can you trust me again, John? Moriarty has so shattered your faith in fellow man,” he speaks with resolve. “You speak of helping me. Let me help you too, John. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Sherlock” John smiles and sniffles. “Yes, I can.”

Sherlock pulls him close and kisses his temple. John’s arms wind around him again. They revel in one another’s warmth and talk. Just talk. John reveals feelings and thoughts that he has kept locked away for weeks, months. And Sherlock absorbs them all without judgement or condescension. He offers advice and support, and love. So much love. To John’s surprise, he begins to feel truly safe. Like he could really try to restore his life, himself as he was before Moriarty. He nuzzles in close to Sherlock as they continue to fill the room with their words.

***

Later the same night, very near dawn but darkened by an overcast sky, John stirs and wakes to a clap of thunder. He is alone. John blinks a few times to clear his bleary, sleep-filled vision. Why hadn’t he noticed Sherlock leaving? When had he even fallen asleep? He and Sherlock were talking. Sherlock was so warm, so welcoming and supportive. So the opposite of what John had expected on first meeting the detective, but Sherlock has always defied all of his expectations.

“God, how I love you, Sherlock,” he voice seems loud in the quiet flat. He shivers at the absence of his lover and looks toward the bedroom door. He rises from the bed and pads down the hall. Seeing light shining out of the sitting room, he speeds the pace until he stands in the doorway. Sherlock is on the sofa. “Sherlock?”

Had Sherlock come out here to think? Or play his violin? Had he fallen asleep with John? Or been awake the whole time? John takes a slow step toward the sleeping detective and then he sees it. Blood spatter on the sofa. And more on the floor. He rushes forward and kneels next to Sherlock, checking for a pulse and turning him gently to rest on his back. There are blood dots and smears all over his t-shirt.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me?”

His pale face is covered with blood. He has been beaten soundly, but no bones appear to be broken. As he continues his examination, John finds a sprained wrist, but no serious injuries. He pulls off his own t-shirt and dabs at Sherlock’s face gently.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” The man’s head moves ever so slightly, though he is not conscious by any means. ”Sherlock, do you know who did this to you?”

Instead of Sherlock’s deep baritone, a sickeningly familiar and higher-pitched voice answers.

“You did, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christ, no!!!! RUN, JOHN!! RUN!!!!! (like he'd ever leave Sherlock helpless)
> 
> Deadpool style!  
> Who is in the flat?? (As if we didn't know.)  
> Who beat up Sherlock?? (As if we didn't know.)  
> What's going to happen next?? 0_0
> 
> Tune in next time. Same bat time. Same bat channel.
> 
> (Okay. How wrong is it to mix Marvel and DC? Anybody?) LOL
> 
> Love to you all and thanks for helping me feel so much better. Jane


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James  
> Moriarty  
> is BACK....

John’s head snaps up to see James Moriarty standing before him, gun in hand. His jaw muscles work hard beneath the skin stretched over them and his eyes go dark with rage. His voice comes out as a low growl, wild and dangerous.

“What the  **fuck** did you do to him?”

“Nothing you haven’t done in one of your sleep trances. Is that a good name for them? Wakeful dreams, maybe?” he laughs, his eyes dark as coal. “Don’t worry, love, he didn’t suffer. In fact, he has no idea I’m here.”

“You drugged him.”

“And then beat him, yes,” Jim replies gleefully. John’s blue eyes flame and run over Sherlock’s body quickly, scanning for rips in his dressing gown or other hints of violation.

“If you touched him, you will  **beg** me to let you die.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I only have eyes for you, love. I’ll grant you, he’s gorgeous, but,” purring and licking his lips, “I prefer your physique, and that mouth.”

John sneers. He doesn’t believe Jim, but can see nothing obvious in Sherlock’s appearance. He also feels more at ease when he observes clearly Sherlock’s unmolested pajama bottoms and a white tee beneath his dressing gown. The relief is short-lived as Jim gestures at him with his gun.

“Get up, John. Over to the table.” He trains his gun on Sherlock when John simply stares him down defiantly. Mad as hell, John rises from Sherlock’s side and walks to the table. Jim slowly mirrors his movements to stand by the sofa, keeping the barrel of his gun not on John, but on Sherlock. “Go ahead. Pick up the pen. We’re going to write a little note for your sweetie here.”

“And what is this note meant to say?” John asks through clenched teeth as he picks up the pen and glowers at Jim.

“Farewell forever. It will be your Dear John letter,” he cackles maniacally and gestures at Sherlock with the gun. “Can’t you just imagine what he’ll think? He’ll go mad.”

He absolutely howls with laughter. John does his best not to rush the bastard, knowing what it would mean for Sherlock. He glares at his enemy and speaks harshly.

“Why the fuck would I do anything you say?”

“Well, there is the matter of your sweetie here,” Jim begins, still chuckling. He puts the gun to the helpless detective’s temple and casts a sharp stare at John. “Ready to start?” 

John growls in fury and holds the pen to write. He watches as Jim climbs onto the sofa next to Sherlock and pulls a knife from his pocket. He puts it to Sherlock’s throat immediately, only then pocketing the gun. John’s eyes widen and he sidesteps the table in approach. Jim presses the blade hard to the detective’s beautiful throat and John stops dead.

“I can kill him now if you like orrrrrr you can cooperate.”

“You leave him alone, you son of a bitch,” the doctor bites out.

“More than happy to, love,” he smiles viciously. “Now write.”

Eyes blazing, John steps behind the table again and holds the pen just above the paper, ready to take down the words as Jim speaks.

“Very good, love, very good indeed,” he continues in a lighter tone. “You write  **only** what I say and nothing more. I’ll be checking when we’re finished.”

“Fine,” he responds through clenched teeth. 

“Good. ‘Dear Sherlock. I can’t be with you anymore.’ “ 

John raises his brows. His forehead is hot with anger, red creeping up his neck to his cheeks. He holds the pen tightly as he writes, knuckles white. He glances up at Jim and squeezes his right hand into a fist, wishing it was thrusting into Jim’s face. John’s eyes shift to Sherlock’s serenely sleeping face. He continues writing without objection for his flatmate’s sake.

“ ‘I don’t want to go, but I’m a danger to you. I don’t know what stopped me from killing you tonight and I don’t want to hurt you again. I won’t let it happen again.’ “ he pauses to smile at John. “Do you think he’ll be fooled? Sounds just like you, doesn’t it?” clearing his throat, “ ‘I understand why you’re angry. It’s Jim. I wanted to protect you from him, from the worry, but I shouldn’t have lied to you.’ “ Jim stops again with a sinister laugh. “Did you get all that, love?”

John writes out the last word and glares at Jim. The man smirks back with a murderous gleam in his eye. John’s eyes dart to Sherlock’s unconscious form, knife still pressed tightly to his throat. His face is so calm, innocent and young. God, he’s so helpless in this position. John must do whatever he can to save him. He cannot let this maniac kill the love of his life.

“Anything else you want to say, Jim?” he snarls. The man gazes back at him, looking far too please with the situation, which is undoubtedly why he gets off task.

“You know,” he gloats, “I wasn’t going to come collect you for a few more weeks, but I couldn’t pass up such a golden opportunity.”

“What opportunity?”

“Your little fight. I suppose you could say I brought it upon myself though.”

John cocks a brow and thrusts his tongue into his cheek, trying to hold his temper.

“How could you possibly be responsible for an argument you have nothing to do with?”

“Shhh,” he puts a finger to his lips and whispers, “I’ll let you in on my little secret, love.  **I** did it.”

“Did what?” John is on the verge of bursting in rage, the verge of losing all control.

“I drugged you.” John’s eyes widen in anger and disbelief. Jim just smirks and pretends to gasp in surprise. “Before you gave yourself the sedative. I drugged you.”

“YOU DID WHAT?!”

“Oh, love, I know it was wrong, but I wanted to see you. I hadn’t realized what you were doing until it was too late. That’s why I made all that noise to wake up Sherlock. God, he sleeps like a rock.”

“You fucking bastard! You could’ve killed me!” John shouts. The anger inside, kept so tenuously by a thread of self-control, explodes. John jumps from behind the table, but stops immediately. Jim smiles like a fun-house clown and presses the knife into Sherlock’s neck. A few drops of blood trickle down his pale throat all along the blade’s edge.

“Careful, John. Every fairy tale needs a good, old-fashioned villain and I more than fit the bill. I can end this story right now.” He meets John’s fiery eyes with his own icy gaze. “Come now, I know you want to save him.”

John swallows hard. Swallowing back his fury, his body shaking with it. He straightens his spine and walks stiffly back behind the table, picking up the pen once again.

“Very wise decision, love. Now, shall we continue?” He eases up on the knife and goes on. “ ‘Please don’t look for me. You may not believe it now, but you will in time. You are good to be rid of me. You’re safe this way, Sherlock. Goodbye. John.’ “

With a downright jolly grin on his face, Jim swaps knife for gun again and rises off the sofa. He is sure to keep the gun trained on Sherlock as he walks to the table. John scowls as Jim extends a hand.

“I’ll just take a look, shall I? Wouldn’t want you to have added anything unseemly.” John glances at his flatmate for a second and returns his glower to Jim. He lifts the sheet of paper and gives it to him. “Oh, that’s a nice touch. ‘I will always love you. John.’ “ his glare raises to John’s face. “But that’s not what I said.”

“Fuck you.”

“Patience, love. I have great plans for your homecoming,” his eyes gleam preditorally. John can’t control the shiver that wracks his body when Jim’s eyes darken and run over him slowly. Jim’s lips curve into a lascivious grin. “Time to go.”

“No,” John stands straight with his shoulders back. He looks absolutely unmoveable, in spite of his short stature. “Not without tending to Sherlock.”

“I’m only going to say this once, John. Move. Now.”

“You want him to believe I’ve left him of my own accord?” John asks with a quiet anger in his tone. ”I would  **never** go without tending to his wounds, especially if I caused them.”

Jim boils with fury. His eyes are on fire and impatient, but he knows John is right. He has to let him stay and help the fallen detective. He raises the gun in his hand a little to make John take notice and points it very carefully at Sherlock’s head.

“All right. You can patch him up, but if you try anything, I’ll kill him right now.”

John nods stiffly. With Jim by his side, John fetches his medical kit and returns to the sitting room to attend to his friend. Less than an hour later, he has finished and Jim prods him to leave again. John leans down and kisses Sherlock’s lips gently.

“Goodbye, Sherlock. I love you,” he whispers. “I’ll always love you.”

“Now, John!” Jim yells impatiently. “Or so help me…”

John raises his hands as if in a hold-up and steps off the sofa. He moves closer to Jim, never taking his eyes off the man. Jim begins to escort John from the room. They take only a few steps before John feels the sharp prick of a syringe in his shoulder. His head snaps around to see Jim smirking.

“What the fuck was that?! What are…are…” his vision blurs almost immediately and he stumbles backwards before falling to his knees. He tilts his head up, eyes sliding up to meet Jim’s.

“Sorry, love, but it’ll be far easier to get you to the island this way.”

“Island?” John slurs his words, his mind slow to comprehend. “Wha d’you mean?”

“Shh. Hush, love, just let it take you.”

John struggles to get to his feet, but loses his balance and falls onto his back instead. He looks up at Jim, his eyes fluttering.

“Sweet dreams. When you wake up, you’ll be home.” Jim grins as John’s eyes close slowly, plunging him into darkness.

***

A few hours later, sometime in mid-morning and Sherlock sits on the sofa in silence. He stares straight ahead, but sees nothing, feels nothing. John is gone. Sherlock has driven him away. He could have stopped shutting John out long ago, but he just kept on. He let his fear and uncertainty control him and now he has lost John. Forever.

Sherlock hears the sudden clatter of Greg Lestrade barging in the door of 221. He and Mrs. Hudson start up the stairs, talking all the way. Sherlock is quite certain they believe their hushed voices cannot be heard, but with the door to the flat open, he can hear every word.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Inspector. John is gone and Sherlock won’t say anything.”

“Maybe he’ll talk to me.”

“Oh, I hope so. I’m so worried. I haven’t seen him this way since… Well, not for a long time.“

They continue ascending the stairs in silence and stop in the flat’s doorway. Mrs. Hudson begins whispering urgently.

“He’s in the sitting room. He’s covered with cuts and bruises. Someone must have…and John…”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I’m sure John’s fine. Try not to worry. I’ll just have a talk with Sherlock.”

“Oh, thank you, Inspector.”

Sherlock listens as Mrs. Hudson scuttles down the stairs and Greg walks through the hall toward the sitting room. The detective does not look when he steps into the room.

“Bloody hell,” Greg utters quietly, taking in Sherlock’s appearance.

“Why are you surprised? Mrs. Hudson just informed you of my condition.”

Greg comes closer, surveying Sherlock’s injuries with an inspector’s eye. Nothing looks too bad. In fact, it looks like someone not Sherlock has even tended to them already. Maybe John is here somewhere. Hiding out in his old room perhaps? He clearly had another night terror and things went downhill from there. Greg squats next to the sofa and looks up at his friend. Sherlock’s blank gaze remains fixed straight ahead.

“So, what happened?” Silence. “Do you know where John is?” Silence. “Sherlock, tell me. Did John do this to you?”

“He’s gone,” Sherlock finally turns his head and looks at Greg with dull eyes. “I pushed him away and he left me.”

Greg stares at the despondent detective. His brain cannot make sense of the words Sherlock has spoken. John would never leave him. He’d sooner shoot himself in the foot, or worse. Hell, he’d been sedating himself to protect Sherlock. He would never leave him.

“Left you? What do you mean?” Greg leans closer to get a good look at Sherlock’s eyes and a thought occurs. Would he? Would John actually leave Sherlock to protect him?

“Lestrade, you have always been such an idiot,” the detective sneers. “What else could I possibly mean?! He’s gone. He’s never coming back.”

“Sherlock, your pupils are blown. You have concussion,” Greg leans even closer. His own eyes are wide with concern. “John would never leave you like this.”

“He did!” jerking his head at the side table and then meeting Greg’s eyes fiercely. “He left a note so there wouldn’t be any confusion as to his intentions. He. Is. Gone.”

Greg rises, his eyes fixed on his friend. He side-steps to the table and lifts the note, his eyes flying over the paper.

“Very considerate of him, isn’t it?” Sherlock bites off the words. Greg ignores him while he reads, his eyes growing wider with every word.

“ ‘Well to be rid of me.’ What the hell? John would never say that.” Greg reads through it again as he nears the sofa. He gestures at Sherlock with the paper, shaking his head. “John didn’t write this.”

“It’s his handwriting.”

“That may be, but he did  **not** write this.”

Furiously, Sherlock leaps off the sofa and snatches the note from Greg’s hand. The effects of the concussion making him wobble, but he steadies himself quickly.

“What do you want me to say?! That it’s a lie? That he didn’t mean any of it? That he’s coming back?” He stalks away and then back, suddenly right up in Greg’s face. “None of it! None of it is true! He’s gone! He’s not coming back and I’m…” The destroyed man rakes his hands through his messy curls, backing away. “God damn it. Mycroft was right. He was right all along.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Greg stares at him in disbelief. “Are you high?”

“No,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “If only.”

“No,” Greg agrees, looking at him closely, “but you are definitely concussed and it’s making you a fucking idiot. I’m taking you to Bart’s.”

“Oh, for god sake. Go. Get out of my sight.”

“Sherlock…”

“GO!” he shouts. They stare at one another for a few seconds, both of them breathing fast. Sherlock breaks away first and turns his back on the DI. “Just go.”

“Right. Fine. I’ll go.” He turns on his heel and marches to the door, looking back at Sherlock before walking out. “I’ll be back, Sherlock. Hopefully, I’ll know where John is by then, if you haven’t pulled your head out of your ass and figured it out already. This isn’t right, Sherlock, and you know it.”

Greg stomps out of the flat and down the stairs. He stops for a moment to talk with Mrs. Hudson and slams out of the building.

Alone once again, Sherlock folds the note and tucks it into the pocket of his dressing gown. He walks directly to the loo and opens a secret hatch in the wall beneath the medicine cabinet. He removes a small wooden case and places it next to the sink. He opens it and looks at the syringe within in a kind of reverence. 

A few minutes later, he takes the needle out of his arm and loosens the tourniquet. Sitting on the floor and tipping his head back to rest on the wall, he closes his eyes and sees John’s face. Quiet words escape from his lips.

“John, where are you? You said you wouldn’t leave. You said...you said you loved me,” a tear trickles down his cheek and drips off of his chin. “Why did you leave? God. What have I done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What?? John, no! NOOOO! Talk about sacrificing yourself for the one you love. Eesh. And poor, poor Sherlock. He's so grief-stricken he doesn't even see the truth when Greg says it. And what does he immediately turn to for solace? Sherlock, no!
> 
> What a chapter this was to write/edit. I just want you all to know, as if you didn't already, I go absolutely out of my way to Jim a complete bastard. The biggest, baddest dick EVER. And he has cooked up quite a scheme to keep these lovers apart this time. Enter, the tears. 
> 
> I want to thank you all again for all your support, and to apologize for not getting this chapter out before now. I have been in a bad way the last couple days and working on this, while on the forefront of my mind, was not something I could do. I hope for better days ahead and a little bonus time with the holiday. I appreciate everyone sticking it out and hope you continue to do so. 
> 
> I love reading all your thoughts and fears in the comments and look forward to more. A shout-out to my Pat, Purrfect and Brna, and newbie Anna, all of whom have helped me battle fiercely against a downturn in mood of late. Thank you so very much. To my beloved Sherly, Hiddles and Julie, I hope you are all well and I see you again soon.
> 
> Much love to all (and hopefully another new chapter will be out soon).  
> Jane


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Jim have a chat.

John’s eyes flutter open. His body feels heavy and his head still throbs from the drugs Jim gave him back in the flat. He tries to reach up and scrub his hands over his face, only to find that they are tied down. Lifting his head to have a look and letting it fall back onto a pillow, he stares up at the ceiling and sighs.

“Naturally. Back to square one then, am I?”

“I wouldn’t say that, love,” Jim walks toward the bed with a smile on his face that makes John uneasy. “I was hoping you’d be awake by now. How do you feel?”

“As good as someone who’s been drugged can feel, I suppose,” he tips his chin angrily and glares at his captor. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Oh, come now, John. You know why I did that,” he sits on the bed and starts tracing his finger on John’s thigh. “So let’s not waste time talking about it. It’s very dull and horribly tedious. I’d rather show you your new home. What do you think?”

“I  **have** a home,” John clenches his teeth.

“Now you have a new one. With me.” 

“I don’t  **want** a new one. Especially not with you.”

Jim ignores him and continues, resting his hand on John’s thigh now. The doctor just keeps his body from shuddering at the sound of his voice, his touch. This is too similar. It’s too much like it was before. Tied to a bed, Jim’s hand on his thigh, no idea where he is. John struggles to keep his train of thought when all his mind wants to do is panic. He tries to concentrate on Jim’s voice, of all things. Anything to keep himself focused and calm.

“It’s much less drab and your room is much bigger than in that absurd little flat. I put some books I think you’ll enjoy on the desk. You can go to the library yourself, of course, just not this first week. You’ll be confined to your rooms. Sort of an adjustment period, you understand.”

“Sorry.” Now that gives John something to focus on. He lifts his head off the pillow to meet the man’s black eyes. “You’re going to let me move about the house?”

“Of course, love, and the grounds. I know how unhappy you were last time, so I brought you here to my own private island. It’s the perfect place for us. No people butting in, no distractions, and no Sherlock.”

“You have a private island?” John asks, feeling a little befuddled.

“Oh, yes. A little something I acquired years ago. There’s just the two of us here, love. No docks, no boats, and no escape. So, you can go anywhere you want.”

John stares at him in disbelief, a sinking feeling in his gut. If what Jim says is true, John may never get off this island. It certainly doesn’t seem as though there’s an easy way to do it anyway. God, how he hopes Sherlock sees the clues he left in the note. He could do so little without Jim noticing.  _ Please, Sherlock, you have to see it.  _ John swallows and shakes his head. Even if Sherlock knows, how will he ever find this island? Just where the hell is it and what can John do to leave?

“Well, now that’s out of the way, I’m going to untie you.” He traces his finger up John’s thigh and stops dangerously close to his crotch. John’s eyes dart to Jim’s again, sweat prickling on his forehead suddenly. He forces down the panic. It’s too much like last time. Too much. If Jim notices John’s discomfort, he doesn’t say anything. He just smiles down at John and purrs. “I want to welcome home you properly.”

Jim leans forward, trapping John’s head with his other hand and kissing him hard. A strong squeeze on John’s thigh forces him to open his mouth in pain, giving Jim ample opportunity to press his tongue in and wrap it around John’s. John struggles as best he can, but his bonds do not allow for much movement and his thigh is in so much more painful than it should be from just being pinched. With no other course of action available, John bites Jim’s tongue and almost immediately tastes blood. Jim cries out in surprise and pain. He wrenches away and punches John’s cheekbone as he sits up. Jim glares down at John and wipes blood from his own lip. Furious, he reaches for John and pulls hard on his hair. John clenches his teeth and glares at the black-eyed man bearing down on him.

“That was very stupid. If you want to set foot off this bed, you will play the part of the dutiful lover,” yanking his hair again for emphasis. “Do you understand?”

“Fuck off,” John wheezes in a pained voice.

“Don’t test me, John. I will personally see to it that someone dies if you don’t do as you’re told and it won’t be you.”

John knows exactly who Jim is referring to. While he doesn’t want to do a damn thing Jim says or plans, he cannot risk Sherlock. He presses his lips into a thin line and shoots daggers at Jim with his dark blue eyes.

“All right. I’ll cooperate.”

“Sherlock thanks you,” Jim smirks. He stands and saunters to the end of the bed. Looking John up and down, he leans over and carefully unties one leg. He pulls off John’s shoe and sock, and massages his foot with strong swirling motions. Jim glances at him with lustful eyes as he slowly moves up John’s calf to his knee and thigh. John’s muscles tense up as Jim works on his thigh. God, how he wants to kick him.

Within minutes, Jim moves away from John’s leg to the other and begins the same process. He watches with apprehension as Jim presses his thumbs gently into John’s thigh. A sudden pain surges up from his thigh and into his belly. Taken by surprise, he groans quietly through clenched teeth. Jim’s fingers are gone in an instant. 

“Oops. Sorry, love. Too close to the incision.”

“Incision? What fucking incision?” John demands.

“Nothing to worry about. Just a little minor procedure. Anyone could do it,” Jim grins. “We don’t want anyone finding you, now do we?”

“What?” John repeats, becoming even more angry. “What the fuck are you talking about?!”

“Shhh. Let’s not talk about that now. I have some welcoming to do.”  Jim sits on the bed again. He meets John’s eyes and licks his lips, his mouth watering. He unties John’s hands and helps him sit up. As soon as he’s up, John immediately lunges at Jim and punches his face, knocking him off the bed and to the floor. John follows and wraps his hands around Jim’s throat.

“You murdered my sister, you fucking bastard!!” John screams, slamming Jim’s head on the floor. John is so full of fury, his eyes on fire and his vision burning with hate, that it doesn’t even register that Jim makes no attempt to resist him. He just lies motionless on the floor and smiles up at John eerily, despite his face already reddening.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d care,” he chokes out his words with great effort. “You haven’t bothered with her in years.”

“You son of a bitch!” John yells. He punches Jim again and goes right back to choking him. Jim just continues smiling. Suddenly, his right arms flies up to stab a syringe into John’s bicep. John releases Jim in favor of pulling the syringe from his own armand looking at it, trying to determine what was in it. He glares at the man with fiery eyes, even as his vision blurs.

“What the fuck?!”

“Sorry, love. I knew you would need an adjustment period, but I had hoped you’d be awake longer than this. You’re so feisty.”

John scowls at him and struggles to stay upright, but soon loses the battle and drops onto Jim’s body. Jim rolls them both, nudging John onto his back again. He sees Jim hovering above his face, grotesquely happy to watch his eyelids growing heavy.

“Sleep well, love. I’ll see you when you wake up.”

John’s vision fades to black.

***

John wakes the next morning, flat on his face and nude. He sighs and turns his head to see a night table with a glass of water and two aspirin tablets next to it. A plush bathrobe in a very dark brick red color hangs over a nearby chair. John pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, and climbs off the bed with minor discomfort. He puts on the robe, wincing as he does so. He rolls his left shoulder while holding it with his right hand. His thigh aches where Jim touched it. John sits on the bed and pulls back the robe to see a bandage, which he immediately removes. There is a small incision in his thigh that has been stitched closed. Clearly by an amateur, but good enough. Why the hell would Jim cut into his leg? 

John shakes his head and scans the bedroom quickly for anything obvious that might help him escape. An envelope placed carefully on the night table catches his eye. John picks it up and opens it, noticing the distinct scent of Jim’s aftershave as he removes the note from within.

_ Good morning, love. I hope your head doesn’t hurt too much. I am sorry I had to do that. I prefer it when you’re awake. _

John closes his eyes and inhales deeply, a feeling of dismay settling over him. Based upon the state of things when he woke and his discomfort, John knew Jim had assaulted him while he was unconscious, but having it spelled out for him in black and white still proves disheartening. He scrubs a hand over his face and continues reading.

_ The two doors on the right are master bath and a walk-in closet, which I have filled with your favorite sort of clothing. The two doors on the left are a fully stocked kitchen and study. The books I mentioned are in there. I will be back this evening for dinner. My treat. Love, Jim _

John puts down the note and envelope, and goes straight for the shower. After thoroughly scrubbing every inch of his body, twice, he dips his chin to his chest and lets the hot water flow over his head and down his body. Fighting to suppress his feelings, John leans forward until his forehead rests on the shower wall. In time, tears trickle down his cheeks mixing with the water dripping down from the top of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends! Sorry for posting again so quickly, but I couldn't help myself and this is a short chapter. Speaking of which, I may be adding a chapter or two to the total once again. It will still be a little while before I know if more should be added. I'll keep you all informed. 
> 
> And now, because I can and because I'm not in pain right now, it's question time.  
> No docks or boats?? How the hell will John get off the island?!  
> Will he get some kind of message to Sherlock?  
> Will Sherlock find him? Will Sherlock even start looking for him??  
> And, above all, poor John. :(
> 
> Our next chapter takes us back to our detective and his cohorts. I plan to post it sometime over the long holiday weekend. Hope to see you all around.  
> Much love, Jane


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, my friends. A nice long chapter to make up for the last short one. 
> 
> Mycroft pays his brother a visit.  
> Greg and Molly do the same.

Two days after John was taken, Sherlock’s eyes snap open at the sound of the door to the flat clicking shut and a familiar gait making its way down the hall. He rolls his eyes and sighs. A lecture from his brother is the last thing he needs. Sherlock steeples his hands beneath his chin and remains prostrate on the sofa, waiting. When Mycroft Holmes enters the room, he can tell immediately that Sherlock is not high at the moment, but his bloodshot eyes and even more pallid skin attest to how he has spent his time, and Mycroft expected nothing less. He stops in the middle of the room to stand before the sofa and fixes an annoyed gaze on its occupant.

“I see you have slipped back into old habits.”

“Fuck off, Mycroft.”

“And I see Dr. Watson’s vocabulary has rubbed off. How lovely.”

“Get to the point and get out.”

“As you wish,” he leans on his umbrella and crosses one leg over the other. The gesture annoys Sherlock exponentially and he shifts on the soft restlessly. “I don’t believe…”

“I was stupid enough to fall in love? To let my guard down, to let anyone into my heart?” He adopts a tone and manner not unlike Mycroft’s and continues. “ ‘Oh, dear brother, you have played the fool once more. When will you ever learn to listen?’ “

Mycroft’s face is tense as he studies Sherlock. Uncrossing his legs and standing ramrod straight, he begins speaking again only to be interrupted. Again.

“That’s not what I…”

“Oh, spare me your phony concern,” Sherlock sits up swiftly and throws his arms in the air dramatically. “Yes! Yes, you were right again. You’re so much smarter than I…will ever be.” His face falls into his hands abysmally and he mumbles to himself. “God, John, where are you? What have I done?”

“Sherlock, will you shut up and listen! I do not believe John left this flat of his own free will. I believe he was taken.”

Sherlock lifts his face from his hands to look at his elder brother, a brow cocked and expression that screams ‘You are an idiot’.

“You can’t be serious. Did you not see the note?”

“Lestrade provided me with an image of it since you have kept it under lock and key since you read it.” Sherlock looks at him expectantly. Mycroft’s face is very serious. “Forged.”

“It was John’s handwriting!” Sherlock leaps from the sofa, invading Mycroft’s personal space. “I have been ignoring him for weeks! He was looking at flats! I…I ruined it. I ruin everything.”

“When are you going to stop blaming yourself for everything that happens to John and start trying to solve the problems? You are not as deficient in the realm of love as you think,” Mycroft watches Sherlock start pacing to and fro in front of him and sighs. “Do you have a list?”

Sherlock pulls a small piece of folded paper from the pocket of his dressing gown and holds it up between two fingers so Mycroft can see it. Mycroft extends a hand.

“Give it to me.”

“No,” the younger man shakes his head. “No, I’m not done.”

“And when will you be finished, brother mine?”

Sherlock raises his chin and eyes to the ceiling as if searching. Searching for John, for even a small piece of the life they had together.

“I don’t think I will ever be finished,” he replies in a low, but airy voice. Mycroft steps close and grabs Sherlock’s arm harshly, meeting his eyes.

“Sherlock, you cannot do this. You cannot waste your mind this way. You must stop now and find John.”

“Find him?” Sherlock chuckles quietly and bitterly. “John doesn’t want to be found.”

“He was kidnapped, Sherlock!”

“Get out, Mycroft. Get out and don’t come back.”

***

Molly rushes into Mycroft’s office to find him at his desk with Greg Lestrade glowering over him. The air in the room is thick with tension and Mycroft stands almost immediately, clearly grateful for the interruption.

“Miss Hooper, so glad you could join us.”

“What is it?” she asks, walking brisking to the desk. “Have you found John?”

“No.”

“Because he hasn’t bloody TRIED to find him!” Greg shouts furiously. “Or done a damn thing to help Sherlock!”

Molly looks at Mycroft in shock, searching his eyes for an explanation and finding it immediately. It is one he will never say in front of Greg. Perhaps never aloud in anyone’s presence. Mycroft looks away to face Greg full-on.

“I spoke to Sherlock only this morning. He won’t listen to me. There is too much consternation between us.”

“That still doesn’t explain why the fuck you aren’t looking for John!”

“Talk to him,” Mycroft continues, ignoring Greg’s growing hostility. “Get him off drugs so he can think clearly again.”

“He’s using again? Christ!” Greg runs a hand through his hair and begins pacing in frustration, trying to regain control of his temper. Molly gasps, her hand covering her lips. “He is unable to see the truth in his current state and if he doesn’t deduce it himself, he will not believe John was taken.”

“He won’t listen to me. It was my fault,” Molly shakes her head sadly when Mycroft turns his gaze to her.  

“No. No, it wasn’t and he knows it. He will listen,” the tall man steps closer, towering over her, but his face is kind. “I know he will. You two are his closest friends.” Molly shakes her head and meets his eyes in surprise when Mycroft takes her hand, looking at her with an imploring gaze. “Sherlock has to find him as quickly as possible. John’s life hangs in the balance.”

“We’ll do it,” Greg bursts back into the conversation and the elder Holmes releases Molly’s hand quickly. The other two see his resolve as soon as they cast eyes on him. He glares at Mycroft pointedly as he speaks. “They’re both like brothers to me, and I’ll be damned if I’ll sit back and do nothing. Come on, Molly. We’ll start tonight.”

Molly’s brown eyes harden in determination and she nods. Greg is out the door before she can blink. Molly follows after him quickly, but stops to look back at Mycroft with soft eyes.

“You have to find him,” she urges quietly. Mycroft opens his mouth to speak, but she presses on. “We’ll take care of Sherlock and help him save John, but you have to find him in the meantime or it’ll be too late.” 

Mycroft closes his eyes and sighs. When he looks at her again, his expression is truly forlorn.

“You know why I’m not. Why I can’t.”

“I know. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. Greg will watch out for me.” She glances into the hallway after Greg and looks back in to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “Please do this for me. And for you. This will destroy you. Use what I found and find him.”

She ducks out of the room before Mycroft can respond. After she is gone, he turns back to his desk and leans over, laying his hands flat on its surface and closing his eyes once more.

***

That evening, Greg and Molly knock on the door of 221 Baker Street. They hear Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps leaving her own flat and approaching the door. They share an uneasy look as they wait for the door to open. Molly smiles easily when it does.

“Hello there, Martha. We’re here to see Sherlock.”

“Well, it’s about bloody time. Come in, come in!” She closes the door again after they have both passed through. “He’s been in such a state. Every time I go up, he hasn’t eaten or slept. He’s out of his ever-loving mind. I hate to see him this way and, by god, it makes me angry. I can’t stop myself from yelling at him whenever I’m there. If you don’t set him right, I’m going to dig out my gun and force him to eat myself!” she huffs out her last angry exclamation as she opens the door to her own flat. Greg’s eyes widen. “Sorry, dear. You didn’t hear that.”

“Thank you for keeping an eye on him, Martha,” Molly smiles. “We’ll take care of him.”

“I know you will, dear,” she replies, patting her cheek. “Do let me know if you need anything. And don’t let him give you any trouble.”

With that, the older woman bids them farewell and goes into her own flat, closing the door behind. Molly and Greg walk slowly up the seventeen steps, both wondering how they will find the detective. When they enter 221b, they find Sherlock in the sitting room. He is very pale and unconscious on the sofa. Molly squats next to him and checks for a pulse at his throat. She meets Greg’s wide and concerned eyes.

“He’s fine. Get a glass of water, will you?”

Greg goes to the kitchen, which looks virtually untouched, and fills a glass from the tap. He frowns and thinks back on Mrs. Hudson’s words, quite certain the skinny bastard hasn’t eaten a thing since John disappeared. When he returns to the sitting room, Molly is slapping Sherlock’s cheeks lightly. The man stirs. She turns to Greg, takes the glass he offers, and throws the water in Sherlock’s face without ceremony. He sits up stalk straight, taken completely by surprise, gasping and gaping at them. Wiping a hand across his face, he glares at the duo.

“What the fuck…”

“You have to stop this, Sherlock,” Molly demands, grabbing his shoulders and staring at him intently. “We know how much you’ve been using and it has to stop. Now.”

“How could you possibly know?” he sneers. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Molly grabs his chin firmly and forces him to meet her eyes.

“I know, Sherlock,” she pauses. “You have. To stop. For yourself and for John.”

“John,” he scoffs, pulling out of her grasp and chuckling miserably. “Why should I do anything for him?” He pauses to collect himself and continues with a bitter edge to his voice. “He basically told me to fuck off.”

“But he didn’t bloody say ‘Feel free to kill yourself with drugs,’ did he?” Greg butts in. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock!”

“I don’t care anymore! John is gone and nothing is the same. It will never be the same.” His voice slowly decreases in volume from shouting to speaking rather quietly. “The world was brighter. Perfect. It’s over now.”

The detective tries to stand so he can retreat into his room, but Greg shoves him back down onto the sofa. Molly leans in and gets right up in his business, looking at him with hard eyes.

“You do care. You’ve carried his letter in your pocket ever since he disappeared.”

“What?” Sherlock gasps, his eyes wide. “How could you… Mycroft. Of course. Bloody bastard.”

“Much as I agree with you there, mate, he’s right about John.” Greg turns away to grab the bag he carried into the flat, giving his friend a smug smile when he faces him again. “In any case, you are going to stop the drugs and it starts now.”

Still sitting on the sofa, Sherlock watches with wide eyes as Greg pulls a length of rope from the bag and hands it to Molly. She takes it and goes to the kitchen. Greg takes his turn squatting on front of the detective.

“No worries, mate. It’s not what it looks like,” he smiles and begins to explain. “We’re going to tie you to a chair, so you can’t get at any needles or leave the flat. Then Molly is going to give you Narcan to block the effects of what you’re using. She says it’ll probably take more than one dose. Once it’s out of your system, we wait until you stop wanting drugs and can think proper. Then we find John.” Sherlock’s eyes shift to Molly, who has brought in a kitchen chair and is standing next to it with a look on her face that reminds him of John, a captain’s face. His eyes slide back to Greg’s, an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. “Molly and I will give you water and food if you want it. I doubt you will, but you’ll eat it. We’ll stay here until it’s finished, as long as it takes.”

Greg looks to Molly, expectantly.

“Ready when you are,” she says. Greg nods and turns back to Sherlock.

“Now, I want you to stand up.” Surprisingly, they stand together. Sherlock’s legs feel like jelly, but he manages to hide it from the other two. “Now, we walk to the chair and you sit.”

They take two steps and then Sherlock tries to make a break for it. Greg grabs his arm to stop him and drops him with a chop to his back. Sherlock’s already wobbly legs crumble under his own weight and Greg catches him before he can fall.

“Or we can do it this way,” Greg grunts, dragging him to the chair.

***

Two days pass with little progress. Sherlock gets himself untied the first night and Molly finds him high as kite in his bedroom. Reaching the limit to her frustration, she shouts a lecture at him once he’s back in the sitting room, punctuating a couple of remarks with a slap. She feels guilty later after dispensing more Narcan and Greg ushers her into the kitchen for a word of reassurance. When they return, Sherlock is in the throes of detoxification and cursing up a storm. 

The next evening, during a trip to the loo, Sherlock gets the door closed and locked before Greg can stop him. He has the needle in his arm and empty before the DI manages to get the heavy old door open. This time he curses the detective while both he and Molly tie him again soundly. More Narcan goes into his system and Molly leaves for Bart’s while Greg deals with Sherlock’s pain and agony on his own for a bit. She returns with a bedpan. No more trips to the loo or even moderate privacy for their friend.

Late on the third day, Sherlock wakes. He looks around the room first, blinking his eyes until they clear. Glancing at the clock on the wall nearby, he reads 11:37pm. The flat is fairly dark and he finds himself tied securely to the kitchen chair in the sitting room. He has finally made it through the full course of Narcan doses and is totally exhausted. The first few hours, he isn’t sure how long, after Molly began administering it again were unbearable. The pain came all in a rush and every time it started to decrease, his high returning, Molly gave him more. Eventually, he was so spent he fell asleep, which is how he ended up where he is now. 

He wiggles his hands against the ropes around his wrists to no avail. His arms, ankles, and waist are also tied tightly. There is no escape this time without something sharp to cut the ropes and he’s fully aware that he will not find it. Movement on the sofa catches his eye and he sees Greg sitting up from where he was lying.

“Hey there. How’re you feeling?” he clicks on a small lamp as he rises and steps over to the uneasy detective for a better look. His eyes are a bit glazed over, but it’s exhaustion rather than drugs at this point.

“Fiiiiine,” he replies in an uncertain tone. Greg gives him a smile and pats his shoulder.

“Go back to sleep. It’ll be morning soon enough. Then you’re going to tell us where any and all drugs and paraphernalia are so we can dispose of it all in one shot.” Sherlock cracks a boozy smile as if there is no way in hell he will give up this information. Greg ignores it. “Once you get over this binge, we’ll catch you up. Molly says it shouldn’t take too long. You’ve only been using a few days. It won’t be nearly as hard to break free as it was the first time, after years of abuse, but it’s been an intense 14 hours since we finally got on track with treatment. No thanks to you, of course. We could’ve been done with this two days ago and be well on our way to finding John b’now.”

“John?” his eyes spark in recognition. “Where is John?”

“He’s been kidnapped, Sherlock.”

“Kidnapped? When? How?” Sherlock’s eyes are wide, but they go dull again in seconds when he remembers. “No. No, John left me.”

“No, he didn’t, Sherlock. He was kidnapped and the sooner you listen to me, the sooner we find him.”

Sherlock frowns at the man and pulls his shoulders back into a stretch, which he subsequently releases. Greg smiles and pats his shoulder again.

“Go back to sleep, Sherlock. It’ll make a lot more sense in the morning.”

Without another word, Greg goes back to the sofa to lie down. Sherlock watches him and tries to think about what he has said. His mind is foggy, a strange mist floating through his mind palace that he does not remember from when he used to get high. Bugger. That’s what he gets for ceasing to use drugs and then starting again abruptly. From inside the haze, Sherlock tries to recall exactly what happened before John disappeared, and tries to make sense of what Greg just told him.

As the next hour passes, Sherlock’s eyes begin to droop and the synapses in his brain slow to a crawl. His mind is so clouded, but he wants to remember what happened to John, every detail. What did they talk about? Why would John leave? He tries to ask Greg what he knows, but his throat is dry and his voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper that fails to wake the DI. Frustrated and exhausted, Sherlock lets his silver eyes close and his head loll to the side. He doesn’t want to sleep, can’t sleep. He has to remember what has happened to John. His John. John Watson. Where is he? Is Greg right?

Sherlock silently curses his mind and the drugs that have gotten him into this state. Illicit drugs used to give him clarity and help him think. Now the only thing that helps is John. John. He raises his head again only for it to fall backwards and, in spite of his struggles to stay awake, he sleeps. His dreams are filled with visions of John and events from the past, and when he finally wakes, he remembers all that happened the night John left. However, the one thing he cannot, is John beating him. He doesn’t remember John raising a hand to slap him, much less beat him badly enough to cause the injuries that he sustained that night, and that is very troubling. His mind finally begins to collect data.

***

The flat is bright and welcoming on the morning of the fourth day. The scent of eggs and bacon drift into the sitting room from the kitchen. Sherlock can tell immediately that his head is clear, his system now completely devoid of drugs. Blinking his eyes a few times to clear the sleep and adjust to the light, he takes in his surroundings to find some means of escape. Unfortunately, none of his ideas are very promising. He sighs in frustration just as Greg saunters into the room with a plate of food. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” he chuckles as he approaches. The detective rolls his eyes in response. Greg grins and pulls up the other kitchen chair to sit in front of him. “Right. You want Molly to feed you or shall I?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, his mouth a thin line. Given all his body has been through in the last few days it probably needs some nourishment, but Sherlock does not particularly want to cooperate with his captors. He eyes Greg suspiciously and hears a quiet melody floating in from the direction of the kitchen. They’ll never let him go if he doesn’t eat and that will just delay his search for John, a search he has decided must begin as quickly as possible. He lets out a long-suffering sigh and closes his eyes for a moment.

“You’re fine,” he shrugs in resignation.

“Great,” Greg brightens. He had honestly expected more resistance. Gathering a forkful of eggs, he holds it out to the detective, who dutifully opens his mouth and plucks it off the utensil. Greg grimaces as he readies another bite. “God, if anyone had told me I’d be doing this one day, I’d have probably decked him.”

“It is rather unexpected, yes,” Sherlock answers, taking the second bite. He is actually quite surprised how much he wants to eat the eggs, not to mention how delicious they are. They look like ordinary scrambled eggs, but they are incredible. He cocks a brow with the next bite. 

“You’re wondering about the eggs,” Greg smiles a bit conspiratorially. “I know, right? It’s an old family secret.”

“ **You** made these?” Sherlock asks in disbelief. “I thought Molly…”

“Don’t tell me you’re a sexist, Sherlock Holmes. I’d be very disappointed,” Molly’s voice comes from the doorway and they turn to see her leaning up against it with a smile on her face. She steps forward and places a steaming mug on the detective’s desk. “I brought you some tea.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbles around some eggs. She nods kindly and then her face shifts to one that is very stern. The detective is mildly startled at the speed of the change.

“We found the case in the loo and another in John’s old closet. I assume it used to be hidden in your own closet before he moved in. Are there any others?”

Sherlock considers his answer as he chews. To be honest, the case in John’s old room was hidden well, but still easy enough to find. The one in the loo is not something he expected the average Joe to find. The cubby is of his own design, perfectly concealed beneath the medicine cabinet. He cocks a brow. Perhaps Greg and Molly are not so ordinary after all. Little does he know he led them right to it when he locked himself in the loo two days earlier.

When Greg offers the next bite, Sherlock wears a rather impressed smile on his face. The DI looks at him suspiciously. Sherlock is certain they won’t believe his answer, but he might as well tell them. The fact of the matter is that what they found truly represents all that is left in flat. Mycroft removed the vast majority years ago when Sherlock was in rehab and Sherlock himself removed anything that was left, aside from the two cases Greg and Molly found, shortly after John moved into the flat. In the beginning, Sherlock wasn’t sure why he did it. John certainly hadn’t asked him, even after they returned home to that supposed drugs bust during their first case together. Sherlock later realized that he had done it because of his feelings for John, bubbling just under the surface of his skin, so clever that he didn’t truly identify it as the reason until much later.

“No,” he replies suddenly and simply. “There is no more.”

“Are you telling me the truth?” Molly leans close, her eyes in little slits. She actually looks menacing in her own way and Sherlock is fairly certain she would not be opposed to using one of Mycroft’s vials of truth sirum if at her disposal. It suddenly occurs to Sherlock that he should still hate her. He should be furious. She all but delivered John to Moriarty and Sherlock has treated her terribly ever since. 

He looks at her closely with hard, silver eyes. And yet, here she is bringing him back from the brink so he can find John and bring him home. It’s true, John may have left him and may not want to be found, but somewhere in the night Sherlock resolved that will  **not** respect his wishes. Not this time. He can’t believe he’s acknowledging it, but Greg Lestrade is right. He and John must both stop running. 

“Yes, Molly,” he says sincerely. “It’s the truth.”

“Good. May I?” she looks at his eyes carefully and takes his vitals. “How are the cravings?”

“Moderate. They will be easy enough to ignore and overcome once I concentrate fully on finding John.”

“Well then,” Greg grins. “Let’s get started.”

***

The remainder of the morning and all of lunch is spent in argument. When Sherlock said he wanted to find John, Greg and Molly assumed he meant save John from Moriarty. It was not until they untied the man and the search began that they realized he had actually meant to find out where John had hidden himself until he could find a new flat. For their part, Molly and Greg have argued quite valiantly for kidnapping, insisting that Sherlock is looking in all the wrong places. For his part, the detective has sneered every time and called them idiots. He also brings up Mycroft every chance he gets and points out what an idiot he is as well. 

“He isn’t going to be in anyone’s records because he isn’t looking at flats!” Molly shouts. “How can you be so smart and so stupid at the same time?”

“I am basing it on the facts, Molly,” the detective replies calmly before promptly resuming his previous line of thought. “He must be looking at flats. He can’t stay in some kind of hotel or at a friend’s flat forever. John is the most likable person on earth, but there are limits,” he suddenly goes silent, his eyes narrowing. “You. One of you.”

“What?”

“He’s staying with one of you, isn’t he?” the detective accuses, pointing a finger.

“Oh, Christ,” Greg throws up his hands.

“No! He isn’t staying with either one of us!” Molly is beside herself. “Do you honestly think we would stand here and try to tell you he’d been kidnapped by bloody Moriarty if he was tucked safely away in our flats? What kind of monster do you take us for, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stands still as stone. He wears the expression of a man who was just savaged by his budgie. His eyes sweep over Molly’s countenance, quickly dismissing the possibility that she is a very good liar. He glances at Greg, who just gives him a look of impatience, and cocks his brow. Without a word, Sherlock walks to his chair and sits, steepling his hands beneath his chin and closing his eyes. Greg rolls his eyes.

“Damn it, Sherlock! We don’t have time for one of your sulks. John is out there somewhere being tortured as we speak and we need you to find him, so get off your sodding ass and…”

Sherlock suddenly leaps from the chair. Greg curses and nearly belts the man, uncertain as to whether or not this is an attack.

“Say that again!” the detective demands, stepping closer. Greg and Molly exchange a confused look. Greg faces Sherlock and eyes him suspiciously.

“Get off your sodding ass and…”

“No! No! Not that,” he snaps. “The bit about John’s note.”

“His note??” Molly asks in confusion.

“Jesus, Sherlock, I haven’t mentioned that for days,” Greg answers, truly baffled. “What are you on about?”

“ ‘He didn’t say “Feel free to kill yourself with drugs”, did he?’ But what did he say? What exactly did he say?” Sherlock pulls the now well-worn letter from his dressing gown pocket and begins reading it again. His lips move as he talks his way through it carefully, some words silent and others audible. Molly and Greg watch him with a growing excitement they both try to hide, not daring to believe their hopes are coming to fruition. “ ‘Dear Sherlock. I can’t be with you…can’t happen,’ H, again…’I understand why you’re angry,’ E…’shouldn’t have lied to you’, L….’Please don’t look for me’, P. H E L P. Damn it, John, you’re a genius. It’s been staring me in the face the whole time.”

“Help?” Molly questions. “Wait, what? What are you talking about?”

“These letters, these four letters are darker than the others, but only just. John wanted to leave a message, but couldn’t risk Moriarty noticing it. John must have known, or maybe just hoped, that I would see the letters for what they are.”

Sherlock gives the note to Molly, who looks at it for a second and then back at Sherlock. She and Greg follow him around the room with their eyes as he begins to pace, stepping over furniture with no regard for its placement.

“And he refers to Moriarty as Jim, which he despises doing. As if Moriarty told him what to write,” he walks to the fireplace and stops, then spins around to face them. “The injuries! The injuries he supposedly inflicted on me. Think back, Molly. Would you say they were made by a right or left as the dominant hand?”

“Oh my god,” she says after a few seconds of consideration. “They were right-handed. They were all right-handed!”

“And the cuts on my neck, that small line across. What was it you said? That it was more like a knife pressing into my throat?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I said,” Molly smiles. She had said that while he was still high, but apparently some things made it through to him and now all the pieces are coming together. Molly turns her head to look at Greg in disbelief and he nearly bursts with laughter after her next words to him. “Fuck me. If I’d realized he would react this way, I’d have been repeating all of this as soon as we walked in the door.”

“John would never do that!” Sherlock continues, not even noticing her speaking. “Not even in the haze of a nightmare. And Greg!”

The man starts at being suddenly called out in the middle of this man’s energetic diatribe. Ill at ease at being under the microscope, not to mention the fact that Sherlock just called him by his actual name, Greg replies cautiously.

“Yeah?”

“The first thing you said after reading the note!” Sherlock leaps onto the chair he was once tied to and points at the other two. ”John would never say I was well to be rid of him.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Greg shrugs. “He’d say it would protect you, but not be better for you. That’s like saying he didn’t give a damn about the pain he’d cause you. And he sure as hell would have apologized. He didn’t apologize once in that whole letter.”

“Exactly!! God, I’ve been such a fool! Why didn’t I see it all before?”

“The concussion,” Greg supplies.

“And the drugs,” Molly contributes. “Both Moriarty’s and your own. You’ve been out of your right mind since the day John vanished.”

“Exactly how long has it been?” Sherlock asks them, suddenly aware that he has no idea when John was kidnapped or how much time has passed.

“A week today,” Molly answers quickly. Sherlock scrubs his hands over his face and through his mussed curls. 

“God knows what he’s done to John in the meantime.” He jumps down from the chair and dashes out of the room. Greg and Molly hurry after him, only catching up when he pauses to grab his coat and scarf.

“Sherlock! Where the hell are you going?”

“To find John.”

“You’re in pajamas and dressing gown!” Molly reminds him. 

“No time to change,” he replies without even looking down at his own clothing. “I’ve already lost too much time to my own stupidity.”

“Sherlock!” Greg shouts as he and Molly scramble to follow. Molly grabs a pair of shoes that must have been toed off at the door days ago. As they run to catch up with the detective, she exchanges a smile with Greg.

“He’s back!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES!! They've done it and Sherlock has finally - how did Greg put it? - "pull[ed] his head out of his ass" and started looking for John. I know I made him a bit thick in this chapter, even after the effects of all the drugs had worn off. I wanted to convey Sherlock's feelings of fear, not that John had left and would never come back, but that Moriarty actually took him. He considered the possibility the night after he spoke to Greg and yet, he was still convinced that John had left him the next morning because even the great Sherlock Holmes didn't want to believe that his worst fear had come true. His mind finally lets him put it all together and see the clues when he's ready to deal with it. I hope you can all make sense of that and not just think I'm just portraying Sherlock as a dumbass. Not my intention.
> 
> I want to thank you all again for the love and support you have given. It has been truly amazing and inspired me to keep posting as quickly as I can. (Which has meant a chapter a day for 3 or 4 days at times. I hope no one is too bothered by that.) Believe it or not, I have actually made some changes based upon your comments. All of which, I believe have made this fic better. Thanks much and keep 'em coming. :)
> 
> Our next chapter will be back on the island. I want to post tomorrow, but we'll see how it goes.  
> Much love to all and happy reading. Jane


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's life on the island begins.

At dinner, one week after John’s arrival on the island, he and Jim sit silently at the table. John has no intention of making conversation with his bastard captor and Jim has not tried to engage him. However, John can tell from the expression on Jim’s face that the silence will soon be broken. John has spent the week locked in his rooms. He has searched high and low for something,  **anything** he can use to escape with no luck. He is leery to attack Jim again because, although he has not said specifically how, he has made it very clear that Sherlock will die if he becomes incapacitated in any way. John is also hesitant to try anything before he has fully seen the island, and is hopeful that Jim will let him out into the rest of the house and grounds soon. John has tried to “behave himself” without giving in to every one of Jim’s demands, and it’s killing him.  

“So what do you think?” Jim’s voice suddenly interrupts John’s thoughts. He looks up from where he was staring absently at the dinner table.

“About?”

“Your new home.”

“I am not home,” John replies scornfully, chewing some peas.

“You can’t seriously be this attached to that little flat.”

“It’s not the flat. It’s the company.”

Jim’s thin smile is unchanged, but John can tell he is angry. Furious, in fact, but hiding it well. John smiles outright and sips his wine, looking like the cat that got the cream. He makes no secret of the fact that he is delighted to have pissed off Jim. To his credit, the man chews on his cheek, clears his throat, and changes the subject.

“Are you enjoying the books? I assume you’ve been reading them. Not much else to do, after all.”

“I am, actually. I could use a few more…if I could pop out to the library.”

“Oh no, love, not yet,” Jim says with a little laugh. “I’ll let you out of your rooms in a few days. Or maybe after you get a good night’s sleep.”

“Sorry?” John swallows his last bite, looking at his companion in confusion. Jim puts down his empty wine glass and looks at John with a sly, and thoroughly entertained face.

“You have been here for a week and I have drugged you each and every night. That’s not what I call a good night’s sleep. Now, if you were to fall asleep on your own…after a luxurious night spent with me, I might consider letting you out,” he raises an eyebrow. “Give and take, love. Give. And. Take.”

John stands and looks down his nose at the dark-eyed man, absolutely seething. He cannot even begin to express the revulsion and hate he feels for this man.

“Let’s just get one thing completely straight. I will NEVER go to bed with you.” They share a cold stare in silence until John breaks eye contact, picking up their plates from the table. “I’ll do the washing up.”

John is nearly finished washing the dishes when he hears a noise close behind. His body stiffens as Jim puts his arms around John’s waist. He places the last plastic wine glass on the drying rack. Bracing his hands on the counter, John exhales an angry breath and struggles to keep his patience.

“Let go of me.”

“Why should I?” Jim whispers into his ear as he nips it. John jerks his head out of Jim’s reach and dries his hands on a small towel. When he turns to face Jim, his eyes are full of anger and he puts his hands over Jim’s to remove them from his person.

“I may be your prisoner, but I will not do everything you say. I am not your slave,” he growls. John doesn’t say sex slave, but the implication is there. Jim grins, honestly amused, and grabs the wrist of John’s scarred arm savagely.

“No, you’re not my prisoner, John,” he laughs roughly. “You. Are. Mine. Need I remind you?”

“I DO NOT BELONG TO YOU,” jerking his wrist away, “If you want to fuck me, you’ll have to keep drugging me because if you don’t, I will kill you with my bare hands the next time you try.”

“Will you, John?” Jim replies playfully. “Somehow I don’t think so.”

Jim doesn’t say a another word, but smirks at John as though he knows some fabulous joke that John is not in on. John just looks at him with a kind of quizzically fury in his eyes. Jim backs away, taking his mobile out of his pocket and pressing speed dial. As soon as he get an answer, he puts it on speaker and fixes John with an intense stare.

“Can you see Sherlock?”

“Yes,” a gruff voice crackles from the phone. John’s eyes widen instantly and he takes an unconscious step forward. A sinister grin spreads across Jim’s face as he watches the emotions play out on his captive’s face.

“What’s he doing?”

“Talking to Lestrade and Hooper. Using his laptop. They’ve been in and out. They had him tied to a chair this morning.”

“Oh, kinky!” Jim giggles. John clenches his jaw. The chuckles are replaced with a mirthless smile as Jim spits out his next words. “Shoot him.”

John rushes forward, now standing very close to Jim. There is a desperate look in his eyes and in his voice that he cannot hide, and he hates himself for it.

“No! Please. Please, don’t.” Jim looks at him expectantly. John closes his eyes in regret, knowing what Jim wants. He steels himself and looks Jim in the eye with a hard, determined gaze. “I’ll do what you want.”

“I’m sorry,” he leans in close with a smile on his face. “What was that, love?”

John closes his eyes again, chewing on his lip. A slow, almost painful tingle works its way through his body, all the way from head to toe and leaving a sick feeling in its wake.  _ God, Sherlock, please forgive me.  _ John opens his eyes again and looks at Jim with a sad, lost expression.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Excellent choice, my love,” he praises with a wicked smile. He returns his attention to the man on the phone. “Scratch that. Holmes can live to see another day.”

Jim ends the call and replaces the mobile in his pocket. He takes a small step forward so that his chest is touching John’s and takes John’s hands in his own where they hang at his sides. Their lips are millimeters apart, his breath warm on John’s face.

“Kiss me, John.” Jim presses their lips together and John kisses him back. He feels dirty and ashamed already. His very actions, and everything he is about to do with Jim, are a betrayal of Sherlock’s trust and of their relationship. He can only hope Sherlock will forgive him if he ever gets off this island.  _ God, oh god, Sherlock. Please forgive me. _

When Jim breaks the kiss, he drapes an arm around John’s shoulders and begins guiding him to the bedroom.

“Let’s retire for the evening, shall we, love? Now that your precious Sherlock is safe,” a cruel chuckle passes through his lips. “You can save him every night... and now you know how.”

***

After a shower and breakfast, thankfully alone, John hesitantly tries the door that separates his rooms from the rest of the house and is surprised to find that Jim was true to his word. The door is not locked. He immediately descends the stairs to the first floor and moves about from door to door, finding the library, a sitting room, and a game room. He also finds that many doors are locked, but doesn’t bother much with them. He will try getting into those rooms later. Right now, his goal is getting out of the house and exploring the grounds.

John cautiously opens the house’s front door and walks out onto the porch. He takes a few slow steps into the outdoors in disbelief, nearly unable to believe this is even possible. As soon as he gathers his wits again, he runs down the stairs and the front path, and then turns back to look at the house. It is much larger and older than John had imagined.

He turns away from the house again and scans what he can see of the island’s shoreline, which is not all that far from the house. His intent is to walk the entire shoreline to get an idea of the island’s size, find out what else is on the island, and see if he can find a dock or another place where Jim could land a boat. He must have a quick way of getting off the island since he leaves John on his own every day and returns at night. John is fairly certain he uses a helicopter, but there must be a decent docking point somewhere.

John walks all morning, stopping around noon to eat some pears and cherries that appear to grow all over the island. Shortly after, he comes to the highest point along the shoreline. He looks down the other side of his climb and sees the house below. His heart sinks as the realization sets in. He has walked all the way around the island and found no dock or any kind of landing point. Nothing. No escape. No other land in sight and nothing on the island, but the house and a few small sheds. His mind begins to run through his options quickly. He could pick a direction and try to swim. And drown. He could attack Jim and end Sherlock’s life, and by all accounts, his own. He could write a message on the beach or set a bonfire. Both are risky as hell and could also end in Sherlock’s death. John actually giggles for a moment when he briefly considers trying a message in a bottle.

With these and other options running through his mind, John trudges to the edge of the hill he’s just climbed and finds a cliff that descends at least 30 feet to rocks and water. He watches the waves crash upon the rocks as his mind clears. He can find no course of action that will not end in Sherlock being killed by whomever Jim has spying on him. Maybe he isn’t creative or brilliant enough, like Sherlock. Sherlock. 

John looks down the cliff side and into the crashing water, but he doesn’t see any of it. All he can see are images of what took place on this island last night. Of what he and Jim did in his bed before falling into a restless sleep. It wasn’t as though John actively participated, but he didn’t try to stop Jim either. He was so glad when he awoke alone and washed every inch of his body, scrubbing so hard it hurt. Without warning, the expression he will see on Sherlock’s face at some point in the future flashes before his eyes. Hurt, pain, horror, disgust. It’s too much. John raises his face to the sky and screams off the cliff. It’s the loudest and most mournful noise he has ever heard from his own lips

When he opens his eyes again, his body is shaking. John looks down the cliff.

_ Would you, Sherlock? Would you forgive me?  _ John inches toward the edge, closes his eyes, and breathes in the fresh air deeply. Feeling more peaceful when his eyes open, he looks out into the sea. His left foot lifts and he speaks softly, his words lost in the wind around him.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he whispers in a hopeless voice.

“ **Oi! Watch out!** ” a loud voice yells from somewhere behind. Startled, John loses his balance and falls backwards into the grass. He sits up quickly and turns his head to see a short woman with blonde hair whirling around her face running toward him. He stands hastily as she nears him.

“Shit! Sorry. I’m so sorry,” she stops before him, her arms outstretched. “ Are you okay? God, I’m sorry, but you were so close to the edge and I thought you might fall.”

“No. I mean, yes, I’m fine,” John finds his voice and tries to smile.

“Thank god,” she lets her head fall back and claps her hand on John’s shoulder in relief. “When I saw your balance go… I might as well have pushed you myself. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. I just… I thought Jim and I were the only people on this island.”

“You are,” she replies with bright eyes. John tilts his head to the side, furrowing his brow. She lets out a little laugh. “I mean, I’m only here once or twice a week. I maintain the grounds,” offering her hand, “Mary Morstan.”

“John Watson,” he answers, taking her hand for a brisk shake. She looks nice enough and unassuming. Her khaki pants, t-shirt, and khaki vest full of pockets seem to support her assertion that she is the groundskeeper. But why the hell would Jim employ someone on a private island where he keeps a prisoner?

“Nice to meet you,” Mary smiles. “Mr. Moriarty said he would have a house guest for a while.”

“A house guest. Right.”

“Well, I’d better get back to it,” Mary smiles again and gives him a friendly nod. “It was nice to meet you. Sorry about startling you.” She starts walking away, back down the hill away from the house. John watches her and then suddenly begins to follow.

“Miss Morstan,” he picks up the pace as she turns to face him again. “Uh, I’m not really… I mean, I was just having a walk, but…” John smiles. “I could use some company. I mean, if you wouldn’t mind my tagging along.”

“I don’t mind at all,” she laughs. “As long as you don’t mind my working.”

“It wouldn’t bother me at all,” John shakes his head. “It’ll be nice to talk with someone. Jim is always gone during the day.”

“Great. Well, come along then. And, please, call me Mary.”

They walk down the hill together, away from the house. When they stop, Mary begins tending to some shrubs and other plants. John sits on a large stone and watches for a few minutes. The wind ruffles his hair and he looks out at the ocean. Mary glances up at him with her light blue eyes.

“So how long have you been here?”

“A little over a week.”

“Really? I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before. I was here last Tuesday.”

“Well, I hadn’t come outside before today. Haven’t had the opportunity,” John supplies. He isn’t about to tell this woman the real reason he hasn’t been outside. Although, she probably already knows. She is probably working with Jim anyway. Why the hell else would she be on this island and what does she want from John? He tries not to let his suspicions show on his face while he puzzles it all out. Mary figures into all of this somehow. Is she supposed to get information from John or keep an eye on him during the day to make sure he doesn’t try to escape while Jim isn’t around? John intends to find out and friendliness is the only way to do it. Maybe if he can get her to trust him, she will tell him how she gets on and off the island. Or maybe just tell him where the hell the island is.

“Oh my god!” Mary gasps. John’s eyes widen minutely as he jolts from his thoughts, but they shrink down again when he sees the smile still on her face. “I could never stay inside that long. I love it outside.”

“Miss.. Mary, I feel utterly useless and rude just sitting here. Please let me help you.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t do that. You’re here on holiday.”

“And I’ll spend it as I please,” he says standing. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Well,” wiping her muddy hands on her pants and looking at him, “all right, but just this one time.”

“Smashing,” John rubs his hands together. “What can I do?”

They work together all afternoon, talking constantly. John makes sure not to reveal anything specific about himself or why he is on the island. He also listens carefully to everything Mary says, trying to answer the niggling questions in his mind. Does she work for Jim as his gardener and know nothing, or does she work as Jim’s operative? Is she dangerous or will she help him? Can she be trusted? Sherlock would know all of the answers in a moment, but it will take John much longer to learn. Fortunately, he has nothing but time.

“Mary,” John stops working for a moment and straightens up, looking around. “What are those trees over there?”

“Prickly pear,” Mary answers. “Island’s full of them.”

“I thought they tasted likes pears. I ate some for lunch.”

“Mmm. They’re delicious, no? But handling them can be tricky,” Mary laughs as she stands and looks at her watch. “Time for me to pack it in.”

“Shit. Yeah, I need to get back to the house,” John brushes his hands together to get the dirt off and looks at the setting sun. Mary steps close and offers her hand.

“It was nice to meet you, John. I had a lovely afternoon, and thanks so much for the help.”

“No problem. I enjoyed it,” John shakes her hand and loosens his grip, but she doesn’t let go. They linger without words until John licks his lip and glances at the grass bashfully. Mary is showing some kind of interest and, if John plays his cards right, he might be able to learn what he needs to know about her sooner than he thought. Or...she could be playing him. But is that so bad if he can play her a little too? He looks up at her again. ”Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.”

“You never know,” Mary smiles broadly. She finally releases his hand and he turns away to walk back to the house. He’s about twelve feet away when Mary calls out to him.

“John!” He turns to see her walking toward him, but she stops about six feet away. “Look, I’ll be back in a couple of days. Maybe we could meet for lunch around noon? We could have a picnic.”

“I’d like that,” John gives her a brilliant smile. She shifts her weight and grins.

“Great. We could meet right here and don’t worry about the food. I’ll have enough for both of us.”

“What? No, I couldn’t…”

“I insist. I owe you for your help,” she lets her smile fall and looks at him with a serious expression. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Okay, okay,” John laughs. “I’ll see you in a couple of days then.”

They bid each other farewell and John walks back to the house confident that he can find out what he wants to know from Mary. If she proves to simply be Jim’s gardener, maybe she will help him get off the island, or at least tell him how she gets off and on the island so he can make his own way. He wanted to ask about it all afternoon. He wanted to ask so many questions, but they would have given too much away and it is best that he not tip the scale immediately.

John slows his pace until he has nearly stopped walking, looking up at the house as he approaches. Soon he will be with Jim again. John shudders at the thought of dinner and the evening with him. Jim will want sex and will threaten Sherlock again to get it.  _ God, Sherlock. Will you ever forgive me?  _ Will he want John to leave and never want to see him again? God, how he wants to see Sherlock. To hold him in his arms and feel his warm body against his own. To feel his lips at his ear as he whispers how much he loves John. To feel safe.

John looks at the house sadly and sighs. He trudges toward it again as the sky slowly continues to darken.

***

Molly Hooper is working late again. She isn’t even sure how long she will be in the lab this time. The sudden rash of violent crimes plaguing London fills her hours with tests and reports and bodies, not to mention her mind is constantly on Sherlock and Greg. She spent the last five days in Sherlock’s flat helping him get his life back together, and another day after that searching for John. Now, at 9:30pm and still working in her lab, already exhausted, she knows full well she will return to 221B in the morning. Molly will help find John Watson and free him if it is the last thing she does.

Molly jumps when the alarm signalling a test’s completion echoes through the quiet laboratory. She steps back from the report laying on the counter before her and walks to the far window to turn off the beeping machine. As she studies the results, she plans out her time in her mind. She intends to help Sherlock and Greg primarily during the day. Her nights will be spent here, catching up on work. However, she will drop it all at anytime and has made that point clear to Greg already. Molly thought it best to go through him, considering she is still not Sherlock’s favorite person.

A light shuffle behind her, suddenly clues Molly into the fact that she is no longer alone. She glances sideways over her shoulder, but doesn’t risk moving her head. Consequently, she can see nothing. Molly grips the pen she is holding in her fist, ready to strike if need be. She glances up into the window facing her and stares when her eyes meet those of Mycroft Holmes. Molly turns quickly and gives him a small smile.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know,” Mycroft looks to his feet and back to her. “I hadn’t meant to disturb you, but I... there is something I need to tell you.”

“You know where he is,” her smile fades into something with more tension. “You sorted out the tracking device.”

“Yes,” Mycroft answers, resigned. “We have determined how to track the device and have found it, but I do not know where John is.”

“What?” Molly’s breath catches. She had been so sure the foreign mass she found in John’s leg was the very key to finding him. What Mycroft says makes no sense. “But I don’t understand. It should lead you right to him.”

“He’s removed it, Molly,” Mycroft frowns down at her. She stops short, shock and confusion on her face. Mycroft’s expression is somewhere between worry and sorrow. His concern for John’s safety and his own brother’s mental stability is as great as his sadness at breaking this news and disappointing Molly. He watches as her brow furrows. “The device is no longer on John’s person. We found it in 221C in the bedroom where he was held before, along with a message for Sherlock.”

“A message?” she asks quietly. Mycroft bites his lip. He would rather not repeat the words he read off the small sheet of paper, but has vowed to keep nothing from her.

“ ‘He’s mine now.’ “

“Oh, god,” Molly closes her eyes. Her hands cover her mouth and she looks up at him. “This is all my fault. If I hadn’t helped Moriarty in the first place, none of this would’ve happened.”

“There’s nothing you could have done, Molls,” Mycroft steps closer. “And these circumstances are completely separate.”

“No, Myc, they aren’t,” she shakes her head. “I should’ve told him. I should’ve told John the minute I confirmed what I found during my examination. He and Sherlock were both right there when I came back from looking at the x-ray.”

“You wanted to find out what its exact purpose was before revealing it.”

“Yes, but why? What purpose did it serve? And then I kept it from him once I knew what it was anyway,” she continues. “I should have gone to John AND Sherlock the moment you told me it was really a tracking device. We should have been removing it ourselves!”

“My men were watching them both,” Mycroft rushes to remind her, trying to find any way to ease her mind. “The process of installing surveillance in the flat was underway and nearly complete.” 

“I know, Myc,” Molly touches his cheek. “I know. But the truth would have been better.”

Mycroft’s mouth closes to form a thin line. He knows she is right and he is as much to blame as Molly believes she is. He is the one who had convinced her they should keep it to themselves. He intended to tell John and his brother once he determined the small mechanism was indeed a tracking device. Unfortunately, the task proved more difficult than expected and John was taken first.

“I’ll tell them tomorrow,” Molly’s voice pulls Mycroft back from his thoughts. She is looking at him with soft eyes. Her hand has slid down to his shoulder. He shakes his head.

“No,” he breathes. Molly lowers her hand and mirrors him. “Knowing he could have used it to find John will only destroy him.”

“Mycroft, we have to tell him.”

“Tell me what?”

“Sherlock!” Molly gasps, looking over Mycroft’s shoulder at the tall detective behind and taking a step back from the elder Holmes at the same time. Mycroft merely closes his eyes in regret and turns to face his brother. 

“What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

“What are  **you** doing here?” he shoots back petulantly.

“Go, Sherlock. Go and look for John,” Mycroft’s voice is stern and angry, but it does nothing to deter the detective. He steps in closer, eyes fixed on Molly.

“I am. I have some questions for our little traitor.”

“Sherlock!”

“What are you lying about now?!”

“Get out!”

“Stop!” Molly shouts, stepping between the two men before their clenched fists escalate into punches. With a hand on each of their chests, she looks at Sherlock with wary determination. “There was a tracking device implanted in John’s thigh.”

The room is silent. Molly watches Sherlock’s silver eyes switch to shock, then confusion and fury. He takes a few steps back, running his hands through his curls. His lips form a broad scowl as he shakes his head and looks down at the woman.

“I took some x-rays when John asked me for the once-over. I told him it was to make sure everything healed well. I found a small tracking device. It has to be how Moriarty always knew where John was, and how he’d really ‘marked’ him,” she puts air quotes around the word marked. Sherlock’s hands are covering his mouth now, his expression one of disbelief and wrath. “I gave the films to Mycroft to make sure that’s what it was, but I should’ve told John right away.”

“John knew?” Sherlock finally speaks. There is an edge of hurt in his voice. 

“No,” Molly drops her hands and her body seems to sag. “I never told him.”

“We located the device two hours ago,” Mycroft steps in, taking up position at Molly’s side. “It had already been removed.”

The room is silent once more. Until, that is, an ear-splitting cackle bursts from Sherlock’s lips. It is a cruel and bitter sound, just matching his eyes as they gleam in white hot fury at the two people who stand before him. Molly visibly cringes, but doesn’t look away. She made this bed, she has to lie in it.

“He came to you for help,” Sherlock’s deep voice tears from his throat, his every word biting out into the room. “He needed a friend and the truth. He trusted you!”

He throws up his arms and begins to pace in front of them. Every one of his words cuts into Molly’s skin like a knife. She takes a step toward him and reaches to touch an arm, but he leaps away from her fingertips as if they would burn. Molly should have expected the reaction, but is startled anyway. Heavy silence hangs in the air. It is unbearable. Molly continues to stare at Sherlock. She wishes he would scream at her, tell her what a terrible liar she is and that she doesn’t deserve John’s friendship. She wants, needs to hear all of the words she deserves. But the detective remains silent and it is more frightening than anything she has ever experienced before.

When Sherlock finally comes near again, she does not shrink back. Mycroft creeps in a bit closer to her side, but Molly hardly notices. Her focus is solely on the man before her, this man she will never be able to call a friend again.

“You are as bad as Moriarty,” Sherlock hisses at her. After a few seconds, he turns and stalks from the room. Molly watches him go, her brain aching under the pressure of his hate. She clutches at her stomach tightly. It feels like his jagged words have torn her body open and everything is spilling out onto the floor. She almost doesn’t feel Mycroft put a comforting hand on her shoulder or hear his quiet words. She flattens her lips into a straight line. She doesn’t deserve solace or comfort. Not when John is still at Moriarty’s mercy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I'm so sorry it has taken me so long to get this chapter out. I've had some troubles reading through the rest of this part, but I'm working day and night. I promise!
> 
> I'm in one of my moods again, so I'm going to ask some of those sassy questions.  
> Anybody see that coming? Mary Morstan, WTF. Is she really just the gardener?  
> Why the hell would Jim have a gardener?  
> Just where is this prickly island anyway?  
> Mycroft and Molly have done it again. Will Sherlock ever forgive either of them?  
> Will John?
> 
> Join me again, hopefully sooner rather than later, for the next chapter. Will there be any answers? Hmmm.  
> Please pay special attention to the tags when it comes out. Some of them will be changing and I'll be adding notes with the chapter summary. Also, there will definitely be more chapters to this part than what I have already indicated. I'm still not sure how many though.
> 
> Thank you all again for the love and support, especially at times like these when it's longer between postings. I love you all. Jane


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life on the island continues. 
> 
> ** **This chapter contains a short, but somewhat graphic depiction of rape.** It is in the second section (divided by asterisks). If that is a trigger, you may skip the entire section or stop reading where I have underlined and pick up again where underlined. 
> 
> Section three deals largely with a frightened post-rape John, in case that interaction is also too much. Know that you will miss character development.**

Two weeks have passed since John met Mary Morstan and he has gone out to walk the island with her on five of those ten days, which is interesting because she had told him she is only there once or twice a week when they first met. If that is to be believed, she has increased the frequency of her visits to be with him. They shared lunch once the first week and twice the second. Even though Mary is Jim’s employee, John has never mentioned to him that he has seen her. If he did, he is convinced one of two things would happen. Either Jim would terminate her employment to ensure she not help him in any way or...nothing. Not a thing. It could be a good metric to see, once and for all, if she is Jim’s spy. However, the possibility of losing her company or endangering her life is unacceptable. Especially considering the fact that, as time has gone by, John has become more convinced that Mary is not working with Jim or is even aware of his illegal activities. Everything about her is too normal, too genuine. Still, much as he’d like to, John doesn’t trust her.

They spend their time together talking about anything and everything, and he now knows quite a bit about this Mary Morstan. On occasion, John tries feeling her out by making vague references to Mary’s means of getting on and off the island. She contributes readily, but adds nothing terribly specific. She talks about a boat, but has not revealed where she docks. He does know now that she gets the ride from someone who leaves and comes back for her each day because there is no good place to dock and leave a boat. This only complicates his idea to ask her to take him off the island one day. Even if she truly does not work for Jim, there is no guarantee that the boat’s captain doesn’t. As he gathers information, John hovers between wanting to ask her more and not wanting to tip off Jim.

Jim has continued to disappear all day and return each night for dinner and sex. John goes along with it most of the time at penalty of a bullet in Sherlock’s head, but every so often, John’s temper gets the better of him and Jim has to drug him or tie him down. The sex is violent on those nights, and John often sustains bruises and cuts that he subsequently hides from Mary. However, things have changed over the last few days and Jim has noticed. John has not resisted Jim’s advances and has even initiated conversations during dinner. He seems to be more at ease in Jim’s presence, more open. Jim is uncertain of the reason for this change, but hopes it is because John is acclimating to his new life. Much as he would like to, he cannot dismiss the possibility that John is simply trying to manipulate him.

After dinner on a perfect evening with a gorgeous sunset, Jim walks out onto the porch to find John watching the sun slip slowly beneath the trees. He saunters up close behind the man and follows his eyes to gaze upon the horizon.

“Did you enjoy dinner, love?” his voice is gentle like the breeze. John nods without looking at him. Jim steps closer casually and studies John with watchful eyes. “You have been on the grounds quite a bit.”

“Yes. Yes, I have. They’re lovely. Very peaceful.”

“I’m glad you like it here,” Jim purrs, leaning against the porch’s railing right next to John. He touches John’s arm lightly. “You seem much more relaxed.”

John turns his head slowly, looking at Jim for the first time since he walked onto the porch.

“I am.”

“I’m glad,” he repeats. “It’s nice to see you happy and calm…not so angry.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say happy,” John replies with a short laugh, “but yeah, calm. Maybe.”

Jim moves even closer to John and takes his hand. John’s body tenses and his eyes drop to where Jim holds his hand in his. He wants to pull it out of his grasp, but doesn’t. Jim speaks in a soothing voice.

“I know I haven’t been around much since you arrived and I’m sorry. I would love to spend more time here with you, but I have so many things to do right now. I’ve quite a few balls in the air.” Jim strokes John’s hand gently with his thumb and does not miss the fact that John has not drawn away. A shiver runs down Jim’s spine and he licks his lips. “One of my projects is coming to an end though. Then I can be here more often. We could talk more, get to know each other.”

John raises his deep blue eyes to Jim’s black gaze and seems to consider this. He blinks slowly and then nods once, twice.

“Yeah, okay. That sounds…okay.”

Seeing an opportunity he cannot pass up, Jim touches John’s face gently. Instead of recoiling, John lets him with not a trace of anger or revulsion in his expression. Jim searches John’s eyes and then leans forward, pressing his lips to John’s in a tender kiss. When he stops, he meets John’s eyes again. Inches away from him, feeling John’s warm breath on his own lips, Jim’s entire body tingles with anticipation. He kisses John again more passionately, but keeps it chaste and not demanding. He opens his eyes in surprise when John actually kisses him back. John’s free hand floats up and gently touches the bottom of Jim’s elbow. A feather-soft touch Jim wouldn’t have even noticed had he not been keenly aware of everything going on between them. Their bodies are dangerously close.

“John Watson,” he smiles, a whisper on his lips. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“No,” John murmurs quietly.

“Well, it’s working anyway.”

“I…” John blinks and shakes his head, his eyes clearing. “No. I..no.” He pulls both hands away from Jim quickly and takes a step away from him. He looks at Jim apprehensively, rubbing the hand Jim had just been holding. He furrows his brow and takes yet another step back. “I’m tired. I’m going to have a lie down. Sorry.”

Jim watches him flee into the house with a cocked brow and a smirk on his lips.

“Ever closer, John. Soon you’ll be done with Sherlock and happy to help me finally win the game. Just a little longer. It’s amazing what a few weeks can do,” he smiles to himself and strolls into the house.

John rushes into his room and slams the door shut. He falls to his knees and covers his face with his hands. He feels dirty. Almost more so than when Jim takes him to bed. He thought he could do it - manipulate Jim into giving something away, into trusting him. John had slowly started to be more receptive to Jim over the last few days - friendly, open to affection, willing. But he can’t go through with it. He just can’t stomach it. He isn’t strong enough to have this man touching him after he has forced himself upon John time and time again. This man who plans to kill Sherlock at his earliest convenience.

John looks up at the ceiling and tries to breathe normally. He feels sick. How can he betray Sherlock like this? He can’t. He just can’t. John closes his eyes and winces, resolving to get the answers he wants from Mary instead. It may take a long time, but he has no choice. He can’t bring himself to willingly be Jim Moriarty’s what? Boyfriend? Fuck buddy? John’s whole body shudders and he scrubs his hands over his face. He lets his shoulders droop. At this moment, he feels completely lost and alone. Sherlock won’t even want him back when he finds out everything John has done. He sighs and sits with his back against the door, thinking of his flatmate.

* * * 

Another week passes. John has been on the island with Jim for a month now. Over the four days they have spent together, he has doubled his efforts to glean information from Mary, and to determine the extent of her involvement with Jim. They shared a picnic lunch three of those days and John believes Mary has grown quite fond of him. Their conversation is as spirited as ever and, if nothing else, provides the perfect distraction from nights with Jim. John is completely convinced that he would go mad were it not for Mary.

The sun is setting on another day to which lunch with Mary was a highlight. They have long since parted ways and John has been at the desk in his rooms reading a book for some time now. He looks up when he hears the door behind him open and close slowly. He slides his bookmark in between the pages and closes the book. Standing briskly and turning, John expects to see Jim creeping up behind him, but a pair of bright blue eyes come his way instead. He tosses the book onto the desk and walks toward her quickly, his voice laced with worry.

“Mary, what are you doing?! You can’t be here.”

“Why not? I don’t see why we always have to meet outside. Moriarty isn’t an ogre.”

“He can’t know we have met,” John touches a hand to his own forehead, lines of concern on his brow. “I can’t let him find out that I’ve been talking to you.”

“What difference does it make?” she laughs. “It’s not like he keeps his guests separate from his employees. This is the 21st century, you know.”

“You have to leave, Mary. He’s dangerous,” John repeats urgently and tries to usher her toward the door she entered.

“Dangerous?? Don’t be ridiculous, John,” she smiles with her hands on her hips and all but ignores John’s attempts to move her out of the room. Suddenly the front door to the house slams downstairs and John’s eyes widen in near panic. Footsteps charge up the stairs to John’s rooms.

“Shit,” he looks around frantically and grabs Mary’s hand to lead her to the walk-in closet. “Get in here and don’t come out until I tell you.”

“John, calm down. You’re completely over-reacting.”

“No, I’m not, Mary,” he pushes her into the dark closet and closes the door, muttering urgently as he turns his back against the door. “Just be quiet, please.”

John can hear Jim grumbling outside of the room. He braces himself against the closet door just as the door to the room flies open. Jim stalks in and John walks to him immediately to keep his attention away from the closet. Jim looks frightening, his eyes aflame and hungry. He looks John up and down slowly, licking his lips as he draws near.

“I was hoping to find you here, love. Busy?” John opens his mouth to speak, but Jim rushes in and covers it with his own. He holds onto John tightly so he cannot squirm away and starts backing him toward the bed. “You seem distracted. Tense. Let me take your mind off things.”

“No. Not now,” John glances at the closet door quickly. “Not here.”

“Dear John,” Jim crowds him and laughs cruelly, “you know I take what I want, whenever I want.”

He pushes John onto the bed roughly and begins crawling up the duvet, John backing all the way until the back of his head and his shoulders hit the headboard.

“No, Jim. Please, not now. Let’s have dinner first. I’ll make it worth the wait.”

“I want now,” Jim breathes, his face inches from John’s. He presses his mouth firmly over John’s lips, but John pushes him off forcefully. Jim swings in unbridled fury and hits the side of John’s face hard with something John didn’t know he was holding. Stunned, John falls back, knocking his head on the headboard with a crack. His senses immediately begin to fog and he blinks at his attacker.

With no more resistance, Jim gets to work. He makes quick work of their clothing, lifts John’s legs, and enters him forcefully. Jim’s pace is fast and violent. Wanting it to be over as quickly as possible, John braces himself and tries not to think about Mary hiding in the closet, or of the intense and growing pain in his head. He is being ripped apart. Most nights aren’t like this, thank god, but Jim is angry this time and John has no idea why. Jim thrusts madly as if possessed with some new, all-encompassing rage. He bucks hard as he comes, cracking John’s head into the headboard again. John sees darkness for a moment, but is pulled back to reality when Jim collapses onto his body and bites bis shoulder. John cries out in surprise and pain, and Jim looks at him with a wide smile on his face.

“Oh, I like that. You’re usually so quiet,” he grabs John’s head and kisses him with a newfound excitement. When their lips part, Jim slams John’s head on the headboard again. John squeezes his eyes shut as a sharp pain reverberates through his body. “Kiss me back, John. NOW.”

He obeys, wanting to get Jim out of the room as quickly as possible. The kiss is heated and intense. Jim cackles with glee.

“God! Yes, please! We need more of that,” he kisses John again messily and rises from the bed, sated. He cleans himself off and dresses swiftly. When he returns to the bedside, he gazes down at John as he pulls on his suit jacket.

“Sorry I can’t stay for dinner, love. I just needed to work out some of the tension. Your former flatmate has been nosing into my business and I still have a few loose ends to tie up.” He skulks to the door and opens it, but turns back and says tenderly, a complete contrast to what he has just done. “Sleep well, love, and pray he doesn’t piss me off again.”

***

An hour or so after Jim left John’s room, Mary opens the door slowly, just a crack and peeks out. The room is deathly silent and appears to be completely devoid of human life. Could John have gotten up and walked away somewhere? Sticking her head a little farther out the door, she sees three other doors that aren’t the one she used to enter. She pushes the closet door open wide and looks around the room cautiously.

“John?” her voice sounds loud in the silence all around and she winces at its volume. “John?”

A barely perceptible movement on the bed catches her eye. It looks like nothing more than a pile of sheets, like laundry that had just been tossed onto the bed, but it’s trembling. Gulping down her nerves, Mary walks silently to the bed. Her heart is beating so loudly in her ears that everyone for miles must be able to hear it. She glances toward the door again suddenly fearing that Jim will burst in to make it stop. Pulling herself together quickly, she convinces herself that Jim will not return tonight and turns back to the pile of linens on the bed.

“John?”

“Please go away,” John replies in a small voice.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, John,” she says softly as she continues to approach.

“Please just go. You don’t need to be involved in this,” his voice is shaking. Mary is right next to the bed now and reaching out a hand to touch the ball of sheets John has wrapped himself in.

“I’m already involved and you need my help,” she hesitates and bites her lip, not sure if this is the best way to proceed. Her decision is made for her when she catches sight of dried blood peeking out from under the edge of a sheet.  _ Oh, god.  _ “John, I’m going to touch you. Is that okay?”

“NO!” The mass of fabric jerks away from her outstretched hands. The trembling has intensified to a full-blown shiver. As much as Mary would like to honor John’s wishes, she knows she can’t. John was clearly bleeding before and could still be. She moves closer again.

“John, please. You’re bleeding. We need to make sure you’re okay.”

“No,” John repeats firmly.

“John, please. I won’t hurt you, I promise,” Mary licks her lips and reaches out a hesitant hand. “I would never hurt you, John. You’re my friend.”

A long silence passes between them while John considers her words and demeanor. He is almost nearly convinced that she is not working with Jim, but even if she is, she clearly had no idea this is what has been going on in the house. John closes his eyes in shame and embarrassment. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know. EVER. And now to have this happen with Mary on the other side of a thin door, able to hear everything, every sound. John bites his lip and tries to reign in his emotions, but he feels crushed with no hope of regaining his dignity, his freedom, or his life. He finally sighs and pushes the sheets back enough for her to see his head and bare shoulders. Quickly hugging his knees close to his chest, he squeezes his eyes shut. They are red and swollen, and his cheeks are stained with tears.

“John, your head is bleeding.”

“I’ll be fine,” John mumbles. “Just go. Get out of here.”

John expects her to protest. He expects what Sherlock would give him, an argument the likes of which the world has never seen. Instead, he hears her footsteps fading as she gets further away from him. John remains still and silent for a minute, then another. He waits as long as he can hold in his tears and then sobs quietly. His mind races through the memories of an hour ago, playing every scene for him to see. It is unbearable. It is torture.

Every night, Jim has come to his bed and taken him one way or another, but this… This was the worst, the most violent, the most painful, and the most humiliating. John hugs his knees tighter. Would he feel better about this if Mary hadn’t been in the closet, aware of everything? The answer comes in an instant, with a flash of physical pain. No. It wouldn’t be any better. Nothing can make this better.

More tears fall as he finally opens his eyes again. He wipes at them with the palms of his hands and raises them to look out into his room. Mary’s face greets him and he scrabbles back in the bed in surprise and fear.

“Fucking hell!” he pulls the sheets around his body tightly. “I thought you’d gone. Why didn’t you go?”

“And leave you like this? Not bloody likely,” She is holding a towel and a handful of damp flannels. She steps close to the bed again, placing everything on it, and leaning forward with one flannel in her hand. “I’m not going to hurt you, John. I need to see your head.”

Opening his mouth to protest earns John a bark of ‘Don’t argue’ that compels him to comply. Not because it’s an order or he is somehow obligated, but because it reminds him of Sherlock so much that he wants to be close to its source so he can feel closer to his detective. John sits up slowly with Mary’s help, the sheets still tucked around him, and turns to face away from her so she can get a good look at the wounds on his head. He feels her fingers carefully pushing hair from side to side for a better view. Next comes the flannel’s gentle cleaning. He closes his eyes and finds himself imagining that Sherlock is doing it. So many things about Mary remind him of his flatmate. On occasion, he almost misses Sherlock less, but it never lasts. The dull ache of wanting to see him, wanting to be with him is always there.

“Is it deep? Do I need stitches?”

“Mm, I don’t think so,” Mary says while looking at his head carefully. When she is finished, she presses a flannel to the wound. “There are three different cuts, but I don’t think any of them is deep enough to warrant stitches. But that’s just my professional opinion,” she jokes and John allows himself a small smile, though she can’t see his face. Mary sobers behind him and asks carefully. “What about the rest of you? Any more bleeding or anything else to clean up?”

“Yes,” John winces, “but I’d rather do it myself.”

“Of course.” 

Mary gives him one of the damp flannels and goes to the kitchen she discovered while looking for the loo. When she returns with a glass of water, John is lying on his side and holding the last flannel to the back of his head. The one she gave him is folded on the bedside table, tinted red with blood. She clears her throat as she approaches. John starts and sits bolt upright, dropping the flannel and ready to attack. Mary freezes to the spot and meets his eyes.

“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t mean to surprise you. I was just fetching some water. Would you like a drink?”

John relaxes minutely and nods, taking the glass and bringing it to his lips. His movements are a series of jerks as he tries to stop his body from shaking. His breaths come shallow and fast. Mary watches him, eyes full of concern, and takes back the glass when he is finished. She places it next to the stained flannel and takes a step closer, making sure that John sees what she is doing. Maintaining eye contact, Mary eases herself down to sit on the opposite side of the bed. John is now breathing slowly and deeply to keep himself calm. He looks away from Mary, desperately trying to keep his composure. This has sent him about 500 steps backwards and brushed away all the progress he has made like an eraser on a chalkboard. He hunches his shoulders in defeat.

“John, will you let me hold the flannel to your head so you can rest?” she asks kindly. John nods, but turns to look at her before lying down again.

“I need to know if my pupils are blown.”

“What?” Mary blinks in confusion.

“My pupils. Are they the same size?” he clarifies. She leans in very close, squinting into his eyes.

“Yes.”

“Good. Thanks,” John sinks back into the bed gingerly and lies on his side with his back to her. She presses the flannel to his head and waits. John stares straight ahead, but is looking at nothing in particular. They stay together in silence for quite some time. Slowly, ever so slowly, tension begins to seep out of John’s body. Mary watches as he visibly begins to relax. She swallows so loudly, she is sure he can hear it and is just too polite to say anything. Mary bites her lip, unable to contain herself any longer. 

“John?” she begins, but stops short. She has absolutely no idea what to say. So many questions rush through her mind and she can’t determine which one to ask first, or which ones she shouldn’t ask at all. Mary swallows hard again. “God, John, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I…”

“Don’t worry about it, Mary,” John interrupts, closing his eyes in resignation.

“Don’t worry?” she nearly snaps back. “How the fuck can I not?! Just look at what he’s done to you! You’re… How…” she pauses in horror, her eyes wide. “Has this happened before?”

“Fine,” John lets out a long breath. “We can talk about it. Just not now, okay? I can’t, I just…” his voice breaks. “Not now.”

“Of course. I’m sorry,” Mary agrees quietly. “Try and get some sleep. I’ll keep the flannel on your head, all right?”

“Thank you, Mary.”

They settle into a comfortable silence that makes John’s heart ache for Sherlock and rainy afternoons in the flat. He keeps his eyes closed, but the tears drip down his face regardless. Two hours pass before his breathing evens out. Mary leans over him to make sure he has really fallen asleep, then lies down next to him, making sure to keep the flannel on his head.

***

John’s eye flutter open the next morning. A splitting headache and pain throughout his body remind him of the previous night. He takes stock of himself to ensure that he has no internal injuries and finds nothing to indicate that he would. He shifts and tries to lay on his back only to find an obstacle pushed up against the length of his body that, in his distraction, he had not taken noticed of before. Then he sees it - an arm draped around his waist. He tenses in a split-second, believing Jim had returned in the night, but then delicately manicured fingernails come into view. Mary? John carefully, but painfully rolls onto his back and turns his head to face her.

“Mary. Mary, wake up,” he touches her shoulder and gives a little shake. Mary opens her eyes almost right away and smiles wistfully. She doesn’t appear to even consider moving her arm off his body.

“Mm…I could get used to this,” she sighs.

“What?” John crinkles his brow. Mary’s eyes go wide.

“What? Sorry. Sorry, I must’ve been…” she sits up quickly. “How are you?”

“Better. Achy.”

“God, I’m sure.” She studies him sadly, but still wears a friendly smile. “Why don’t you get a proper shower and I’ll make breakfast?”

“No,” John shakes his head. “You have to leave. He can’t find you here.”

“Save it,” she interrupts. “I’m not running off as soon as the sun comes up and you shouldn’t be alone. You might still eed help.”

“Mary…”

“You said yourself he’s never here during the day. You know how unlikely he is to discover us,” she looks at him desperately. ”Just let me do this, John. Let me help you.”

John gazes into her eyes for a moment and then lets her take his hand and help as he sits up, all the while looking at him sternly with calm blue eyes. John is quite sure Sherlock would have the same look on his face. A bit more pout on the lips though. Some of the tension drains from his body at the thought of his flatmate and he finds himself agreeing with her.

“Okay. But you leave right after breakfast.”

***

John walks gingerly into the kitchen about an hour later, feeling much less pained and much more like himself now that last night has been washed off of his body. Mary looks up from the counters on the kitchen island and smiles.

“Perfect timing,” she places two plates of food on the table and they sit to eat. They make a little small talk and drink tea. John intends upon asking a few pointed questions about the island, but the conversation is derailed before he has the chance. “John, what happened last night?”

“No. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You said you would!”

“I lied.”

“John! You can’t just say you’re going to talk and refuse in the same breath.”

“I can and I will. It’s none of your business. End of discussion.”

“All right. Fine,” Mary grumbles, sitting back in her chair with a pout on her lips. John starts eating again. For a moment he is convinced she is going to sit right there and sulk, just like Sherlock would, but her mouth quirks into a small smile instead. Also not unlike Sherlock. She leans forward with her elbows on the table, picks up some eggs with her fork, and pops it into her mouth. She asks coily as she chews. “So, who’s Sherlock?”

John nearly chokes on his tea and looks at her with wide eyes.

“How do you know that name?”

“You talk in your sleep,” she shrugs. John stares at her and furrows his brow.

“No one has ever mentioned that before.”

“Maybe ‘no one’ were all sound sleepers,” she suggests around a piece of bacon.

“All? There haven’t been that many, you know.”

“I do now,” she grins. “So…who’s Sherlock?”

John hesitates, trying to suss her out. Did he really say something while he was sleeping or did Jim tell her about Sherlock? Either way, he decides telling her won’t hurt and may actually make him feel a little better. If she’s on Jim’s payroll, she probably knows everything John would willingly tell her anyway.

“Sherlock is my partner,” he explains. “We work together.”

“And…”

“And?”

“It didn’t sound like the sort of dream you have about someone you work with,” she chortles. John stares at her, horrified and she back-pedals immediately. “No, no. It wasn’t a sex dream or anything. It just sounded like a dream about someone you love. That’s all.” They share a meaningful look and remain silent a few moments before Mary perks up again. “So, tell me about her. What does she look like?”

John allows himself a little smile. He knows Mary could still be playing him for a fool, but with each day that passes, he is more convinced she does not work with Jim. In spite of that, he still feels she has her own agenda. There is something about her that always gives him pause. He hesitates, but decides things can’t be any worse. He clears his throat and tries not to look too much like a smitten high school girl as he begins to describe his flatmate.

“Dark curls, silver eyes that catch the sun, gorgeous cheekbones,” (Mary giggles) “six foot,” (her eyes widen) “well-built, a genius..”

“Oh, come on!” Mary snorts. “A genius? Seriously?!”

“Honestly,” John smiles and pauses before saying, “And…a man.”

Mary’s laughter stops abruptly. John studies her carefully. She looks surprised, but not at all troubled by this revelation. Her smile turns sly and her brows raise as she waggles her finger at him.

“Now that, I did not expect. So, you’re gay then.”

“No.”

“No?” tilting her head in confusion.

“I’m not gay,” John repeats matter-of-factly.

“Bisexual.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.”

“Mm, no,” Mary frowns, clearly unsure what to make of this conversation.  John struggles to explain. He never has liked labels.

“I mean, I’ve only ever been attracted to women before, so I can’t be gay or bisexual, right?”

“Uh, okay,” Mary speaks slowly, trying to understand. “You’ve always been attracted to women in the past, but you have a boyfriend now. What would you call it then?”

“I’m…I’m Sherlocked.” Mary just stares. “I can’t say I was ever attracted to to men before Sherlock, and I never really loved any of the women I’ve dated either. Something was…just wasn’t there.” He meets her eyes with a serious and sincere gaze. “But I love Sherlock. I’ve never loved anyone else. He can be a moody, arrogant bastard, but he’s the rest of my heart.”

“But you broke up,” Mary adds doubtfully. John’s brows furrow as he frowns at her.

“No.”

“Had a fight then?” she provides. John shakes his head in confusion. “Then what are you doing here? Moriarty made it sound like you needed to get away to get over a breakup or something. I figured you were on the rebound. Oh, god!” she says loudly, her eyes wide. “He didn’t die!”

“What? No. He’s fine,” John shifts in his chair and winces in pain. Mary rises and steps toward him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You need some rest and I need to get to work,” she says softly. She wants to keep talking to John and make him tell her what the hell is going on, but can tell this is not the time and she doesn’t want to push too hard. She may be the only friend John has right now. He never mentions talking to anyone but Jim and she would know if anyone else had come to the island. Maybe all of John’s friends sided with Sherlock when they fought? Brushing her questions aside for now, Mary goes right back to an easy grin. “You can tell me more later, after you’re feeling a bit better.”

“Yeah. Okay, I should rest. But I’d love to meet you for lunch. Our usual spot?”

“You think you can make it?” she asks, her voice thick with concern.

“If I can’t, you’ll know why and where I am,” he answers with a smile on his lips that suddenly turns serious. “And you do not come back here again.”

“Okay, okay,” she holds up her hands in defeat. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

She walks to the kitchen door, gives him a wink, and disappears.  _ The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 2 2 1 B Baker Street. _ The words flow into John’s mind like he heard them only yesterday. Goddammit. He  **has** to get off this island and back to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Responses are in and darkness has not been discouraged, so we are all about to take a trip down the rabbit hole. I'd explain, but I think you all know what I mean. I just want to say please no one lose heart. The scale will tip upward again. Every story has highs and lows - it's what makes them worth reading and what makes the characters worth caring about. And MY characters are worth caring about. (An uppity assertion, I know, but I love these guys. Please accept apologies for my conceit.)
> 
> Our next chapter returns us to Greg and Sherlock, now working alone to find John. But don't count out Mycroft and Molly completely. We know Mycroft will never pay any mind to a word Sherlock has to say and Molly certainly won't give up looking for John either. Hopefully, they won't get in each other's way.
> 
> Thank you ALL for your love and support! It has meant more to me recently than ever before. I won't bore you with my own struggles, but having you all around has made all the difference. Thank you!  
> Much love, Jane


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Sherlock make a discovery and save the life of someone they know.  
> Moriarty is pissed.
> 
> **Depictions of violence in the last section. Tread carefully.**
> 
> I’ve been told that people aren’t receiving a notification that this chapter is up. I don’t know why that would happen, but I’m trying to repost it.

Sherlock and Greg have been running the darker parts of London trying to track as many of Moriarty’s operatives as possible in hopes that one of them will give up John, or Moriarty’s next move in the rash of crimes that have taken place since John’s disappearance. After a maddeningly unproductive two days, Sherlock struck gold and led Greg on a crusade to find a man called “The Mole”, who they now have cornered in an alley. The only way out is through the intrepid duo and they are of no mind to let him escape without the information they desire.

The Mole’s eyes keep shifting from Greg to Sherlock and back. No doubt, he is trying to determine which of them will be easier to take down. The tall detective rushes forward suddenly, depriving the man of his decision and slamming him against the wall of a brick building. Sherlock grabs him by the lapels and stares down at him darkly. Greg keeps his gun trained on The Mole, lest he get any ideas.

“Moriarty has set something in motion,” Sherlock growls. “What is it?”

The man just stares at him without response. Sherlock snarls and grips tighter, but is cut down before he can say another word. A bullet whizzes by his ear, catches his forearm, and exits into the man in his grasp. Both men cry out and fall to the ground.

“Shit!” Greg ducks down, looking overhead and seeing no one. He glances toward Sherlock, who is holding tightly to his injured arm, but turns to The Mole instead when the man’s movement draws his eye. Greg leaps up and tackles him to the ground as soon as he gets to his feet. Another shot echoes around the alley, but misses its target. The Mole makes an attempt to struggle himself free of Greg’s grasp, but the shot to his chest is too severe and he is already slipping away. Greg leans down and whispers. “They’ve already killed you, mate. Tell me what I want to know.”

Meanwhile, Sherlock wraps his own scarf around his arm and ties it tightly. Fortunately, the bullet entered and exited the fleshy part of his arm, missing any bones or other vital parts. He looks up as Greg approaches. They can hear sirens and a light rain begins to fall.

“The rest of the Yard finally catching up with us?” his voice is clipped and a little pained. Greg nods and then jerks his head toward the man they were chasing.

“He’s dead. You all right?”

“Fine. Did you get anything from him?”

“Nothing that made any sense. ‘Man of defense. This afternoon. Ben’s on a timer.’ Said tick tock a couple of times and then snuffed it.”

Sherlock furrows his brows and begins mumbling to himself as other police rush into the alley. At the front of the crowd, is Sally Donovan. Greg quickly directs the other coppers and explains everything to Sally. When they both join Sherlock a good twenty minutes later, Sally offers a short but sincere apology and goes about managing the officers rushing about in the alley.

“The paramedics are here,” Greg tells him. The detective had nodded in acknowledgement of Sally’s words, but his eyes were closed, and are still closed now. He can hear Greg in the distance, but does not pay attention. His consciousness is solidly immersed in his mind palace. He must understand The Mole’s jumbled words. It is a warning to be sure, but of what? So complete is his focus that Sherlock jumps when he feels Greg lay a hand on his shoulder. His eyes snap open wide, his mouth forming a perfect oh. He had just enough time to piece it together before the interruption. “Sherlock...”

“We have to get to Big Ben and Parliament immediately. Moriarty has planted a bomb somewhere near the Minister of Defense,” Sherlock declares. He leaps up, even as Greg stares at him, and begins running. Shouting deductions as he goes, he is pleased to see Greg is right behind him when he arrives at a patrol car.

“Those proceedings started a two hours ago. Jesus, it could blow any minute!” Greg glances at his watch as he climbs in the driver’s seat.

“Then I suggest you hurry.”

“Call him,” the DI demands, stepping on the gas.

“I told you that Mycroft…”

“I don’t care what you bloody told me! We are talking about a bomb in Parliament and your fucking brother can stop it!” Greg shouts at the detective, honking and cursing at traffic. “Just shut up and call the asshole!”

Sherlock glares daggers at his friend, but doesn’t bother to argue. He knows the DI is right. He pulls his mobile from his pocket, dials a preset number, and huffs when it goes straight to voicemail. 

“Answer your bloody phone, Mycroft!” he mumbles and dials again.

***

Mycroft Holmes is seated next to a distinguished-looking gentleman, as he reads his brother’s name on his mobile. Only the rise of his eyebrows betrays his surprise, not that his companion is paying attention. Both men sit in elegant wooden chairs with a heavy wooden table before them, covered with ordered stacks of file folders. One file folder lays open in front of each man and someone’s voice is echoing in the large room around them.

Mycroft resolutely ignores his silenced phone, in spite of the constant stream of calls from his brother and his deep desire to answer. He has not heard from Sherlock since that night in the lab. He prides himself on his ability to remain calm in a crisis, but Mycroft Holmes has been on the verge of panic, a fact he has only revealed to Molly. He exhales deeply when the speaker calls a fifteen minute recess. Mycroft glances at his mobile again and sees a text this time.  _ Answer your fucking phone.  _ No sooner has he read it than another incoming call lights up his mobile. He exchanges a cordial smile with his table mate and rises. Walking quickly to a more secluded area of the room, he lifts the phone to his ear.

“Sherlock…”

“Moriarty has a timed bomb in Parliament somewhere near the Minister of Defense.”

Mycroft stops dead, eyes wide.

“Parliament is now in session.”

“Yes, you idiot! Why do you think I’m telling you?” Sherlock barks into his mobile. “Go there now! Lestrade and I are on our way.”

Streams of curses fill Sherlock’s mind. He is furious, for several reasons actually, not the least of which is that he is speaking to his brother. He is about to open the floodgates and rip Mycroft in half for being so dense, but the man’s next words make his blood run cold.

“I am already here, brother mine,” Mycroft’s voice is calm, but wary.

“What?” Sherlock is suddenly breathless.

“I am sitting next to the Minister of Defense.”

There is a long pause. Probably not more than a second or two, but it feels like hours to the uncharacteristically shocked detective. No. He can’t lose him. Not after their parents. Not after John.

“What the fuck are you doing there?!” Sherlock snaps out of his own panicked thoughts. Instead of responding, Mycroft nonchalantly walks back to the table he shares with the minister and sits down, listening to his brother curse all the way. He interrupts Sherlock’s tirade calmly while looking beneath the table under the guise of picking up his stowed briefcase.

“I was asked to attend to provide certain information,” he hones in on a small device attached to the table’s far right corner, not far from his knee. “I’ve found it.”

The line goes dead.

“Mycroft? Mycroft! God damn it!”

***

Sherlock and Greg are slowed by traffic, even with the patrol car’s sirens blaring and lights flashing. By the time they arrive at Parliament, all of its members are safely away and the bomb neutralized. Armed MI6 men are everywhere. One walks them into the large gathering room and to Mycroft, who stands next to a prominently placed table. He nods in greeting.

“It was directly under the table and is being dismantled for evidence as we speak. The minister is under my protection.”

Sherlock nods back and begins examining everything carefully. Greg turns to the elder Holmes, hands on his hips.

“And you’re okay?”

“Obviously,” the man replies. Greg rolls his eyes at the look on Mycroft’s face. “Moriarty’s man on the ground was distracted during the recess and missed his chance to detonate when I discovered it.”

“He’s being questioned?”

“Dead,” Mycroft shakes his head. “Suicide.”

“Jesus,” Greg might have continued if Sherlock hadn’t popped up from beneath the table at that moment and said something that catches both their attention.

“The minister wasn’t the target,” he eyes his brother. “You were.”

Lifting a brow, Mycroft bends down to look under the table. Greg mirrors his posture. In the back corner, where the defunct device sits, is a piece of blue painter’s tape with a series of numbers written on it. When Mycroft straightens again, he lets out a long breath, clearly convinced that Sherlock is right. Greg looks at him and then Sherlock.

“What the bloody hell does that prove? They used it to mark where the minister sits.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, grabbing the name placard off the table and thrusting it at the DI.

“They already knew he was sitting here. EVERYONE knew he was sitting here,” he points to a folded piece of cardstock with Mycroft’s name and title printed on it. When he continues, his voice is more thoughtful and less irritated. “But you had this.”

“Yes, I was invited late last night. There wasn’t time for a formal placard.”

“And yet, there was time for Moriarty’s minions to place this marker and then plant the bomb.” The wheels in Sherlock’s head are turning fast. Moriarty was sloppy. It is unlike him to be so sloppy. His methods and his minions are impeccable. John. Somehow John is distracting him, disrupting his plans.

“Sorry,” Greg says in frustration. Mycroft looks at the DI, but Sherlock is lost in his thoughts. “I still don’t get what this all has to do with…”

“My name is on it, Inspector,” Mycroft interrupts him. Greg’s expression remains quizzical. “The numbers. They spell Holmes.”

Greg’s eyes widen and he squats to look again. He almost can’t believe what he sees when he reads the numbers on the tape that correspond to the letters in Mycroft’s name. He pulls out from under the table and looks at the brothers Holmes.

“Fuck me.”

“I wondered if you‘d notice,” Sherlock smirks at his brother. The elder is momentarily silent, surprised at the familiarity of his tone, as if Mycroft’s transgressions were briefly forgiven.

“How could I not?” Mycroft answers, but refuses to admit that he didn’t see it until Sherlock pointed it out. “Seems Moriarty set the bar low for this assignment.”

“Indeed. Someone has him off his game,” Sherlock agrees, but he shifts his focus quickly. “Who knew you were going to be here today? One of them must have informed Moriarty.”

“It’s a short list. I assure you I will take care of it personally.”

“I’m sure you will.” Sherlock turns and strides for the door, intent upon resuming his efforts to find John. Greg is on his heels, both men more anxious to find their friend than ever. As he watches them go, Mycroft’s cheeks feel hot and the slow rush of adrenaline fills his veins. He can’t let Sherlock walk out of his life, not when fate has just brought him this close. 

“Sherlock.” The two men stop and look back at him. “Moriarty will not take this news well. He will likely feel obliged to exact revenge. Be careful. Please.”

Greg’s eyes go wide, his face the very image of shock. Sherlock just nods stiffly and walks out of the room. He and Greg pick up the pace once they are out of the building. Sherlock’s mobile sounds as they climb back into the patrol car. Greg glances at Sherlock, who mouths “Moriarty” just before he begins speaking into the phone. Greg scrambles for his own mobile to work the trace.

“Why hello, James. Fancy you calling.”

“God damn you, Sherlock Holmes!!”

“Jim, you sound vexed. Is there a problem? Can I help?”

“You will pay for this, Sherlock,” Jim begins quietly, but is soon shouting. “YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!”

The line goes dead and Sherlock ends the call with an all-out smirk on his face. Greg ends his own call too, shaking his head. They both know there was no time for a trace. However, he still eyes the detective with anticipation.

“Wha’did he say?”

“We have him. He is outraged. He will make a mistake. Mark my words, Lestrade. It won’t be long now.”

“Right, but will his mistake lead us to John?”

***

Early in the afternoon on the same day as the incident in parliament, John approaches Mary at their usual meeting place. It has been nearly two weeks since the violent assault. The two have not been able to meet since then and both are happy to see one another again. As he nears, Mary rises and takes his outstretched hands, kissing his cheek softly.

“John, you look so much better. How are you?”

“Good. Everything is healing up nicely,” he says as they sit in the grass. Soon they are laughing and catching up and it’s nice. But before even ten minutes pass, Mary drops all pretenses.

“So you’ve been all right? Moriarty hasn’t…” she searches for the right words and comes up lacking, “bothered you since that night?”

“That hasn’t happened again, no. He came back the night after - to apologize. We’ve spent time together since then. We’ve…” he stops, startled with himself that he is speaking so freely, “but not like that. It’s fine. It’s been fine. Anyway, he’s been busy lately. I haven’t seen him for four days now.”

“But he did still rape you again, John.”

“Mary…”

“Not hitting you doesn’t make it any less than what it is,” she continues.

“It’s not important,” John cuts her off. “Now, please just stop. I don’t want to talk about it. I haven’t seen you for two weeks. Let’s talk about something else.”

“John,” Mary sighs, her shoulders sagging. She wants to press the subject, but is afraid John will shut down and stop confiding in her. She isn’t finished yet. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’ve been alone with him all this time. I didn’t want to stay away, but I had obligations.”

“Don’t worry about it. You told me you would be gone a while. It’s been good to have some time on my own.”

“You’re sure?” she gives him a small smile when he nods. “If I’m honest, I was concerned about being away. And when you were late to meet me just now.” He looks at her quizzically. “I know you were about to step off that cliff the day we met.”

Neither one of them says a word. They just look at one another in silence as an understanding passes between them, a feeling. In a minute, they are talking and laughing, handing food back and forth like nothing has happened. John breathes a sigh of relief. God, he missed this.

After a few hours of good food and conversation, they replace everything in Mary’s picnic basket and content themselves with looking out over the sea. Mary turns her eyes toward John and watches him for a few minutes before he realizes and looks back at her. Her face is full of concern.

“Mary, don’t start,” John warns. She shakes her head.

“You never did go to a doctor, did you?”

“I don’t need one.”

“John, I know you’re doing better, but you really should see someone.”

“Mary,” he sighs, “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“No?” she asks facetiously with a little laugh. “John, you haven’t told me much of anything about yourself or your family. Except for Sherlock, of course, and even there you haven’t said much.”

“I know,” John wears the expression of a man who is about to give up the most valuable government secrets. “Mary, I don’t need a doctor because I am one.”

Mary stares for a moment, her brows rising in disbelief.

“A doctor,” she states skeptically.

“Sherlock is a consulting detective. We solves crimes together.”

“Crimes.”

“Murder, kidnapping, theft, blackmail, whatever. With the police or for clients. And we also have enemies.” John watches as she just gapes at him, speechless. He opens his mouth to speak again when a faint noise catches his ear. He raises his head to look into the sky. “Do you hear that?”

“It’s just the wind picking up. A storm is blowing in,” Mary replies. As if on cue, the sky flashes with lightning and a clap of thunder echoes all around.

“No,” John tilts his head. All of his senses are heightened as a familiar sound fills the air. “It’s a helicopter.”

John leaps to his feet, his eyes on the sky. Another flash lights the sky as a black helicopter comes into view. John turns to see Mary at his side, her eyes fixed on the same spot. She meets his eyes.

“Something’s wrong. He’s never back this early,” John states in a low voice. “I have to go. Get out of here. I’ll meet you for lunch in a couple of days.”

“John…”

“Don’t argue. I don’t have time,” he shouts and runs for the house. Mary watches him go with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

***

As soon as Jim is on the ground and the helicopter is away, he heads off toward the house. The very blood in his body boils over the brim. He is absolutely seething. Jim slams into the house and walks straight up the stairs to John’s room. He curses Sherlock’s name all the way, slamming his fist into the wall every few steps. He’s going to fucking kill Sherlock Holmes. And he knows just how to start.

The room is pitch black when Jim opens the door. He steps in and quickly switches on the lights, scanning the room. He finds himself hopelessly intrigued. This is not typically how he finds John in the evenings. John has clearly prepared something. Jim steps fully into the room with an expectant smile on his face.

“John, I’m back. Come out, come out wherever you are,” he nearly sings.

John comes out of the shadows and grabs Jim from behind, locking his arms around his neck and holding him firmly. Jim grins maniacally and does not struggle in the least. He knows full well there is no escape from this hold, which is fine because he also knows exactly how to manipulate John Watson. His pressure points are so obvious, but then again, he doesn’t try to hide them. He wears them on his sleeve. It’s so…sweet.

Still, Jim has to do John the dignity of trying to fight his way out of it before going for the jugular. He just loves getting physical with John Watson and all of his gorgeous muscles. With a grin still on his face, Jim stumbles around a bit and then crushes John against the wall a few times, biting his lip as his back presses against John’s firm chest. He’s already getting hard. Jim hears an oof or two from John, but the man’s grip does not loosen. Next he grasps the arm around his own neck and bends forward, trying to flip John over onto his back, but quickly determines he doesn’t have a chance at overpowering the former soldier and god, that is just  **so sexy** . Jim stumbles forward, leading John away from the wall and near the foot of the bed. A smile spreads across his face at the knowledge that John is about to set him free and let him do whatever he wants.

“This! Now this is why I love you,” Jim purrs. “Let me go and we’ll put those muscles to much better use.”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t just break your bloody neck,” John whispers hatefully into his ear.

“That’s easy, love. Far too easy. You already know the answer,” Jim giggles. “SherrrrrloCK. My man has orders to kill if he doesn’t hear from me every few hours. I know I’ve already told you about my insurance, love, and you’re much too clever to forget. Which means you have a plan. It won’t work.” He feels John’s grip slowly beginning to loosen. He knows Jim is right. “You’ll arrive home just in time to bury him. IF you ever make it off this island.”

John releases the man and steps back, scowling. Jim laughs, still not facing the doctor.

“I hate you.”

“Mm-hm,” Jim tilts his head from side to side to crack his neck. Just like at the pool when John was strapped with Semtex. “There’s a thin line between love and hate, John. A very thin line.”

Jim turns to face John, carefully pulling a gun from his pocket that John cannot see. His smile grows as he passes his eyes over John’s body, going all the way from head to toe. John glares back at him, hate iminating from every pore.

“And you’re getting very close to...love,” Jim teases quietly, suddenly swinging his arm around and cracking the gun on the side of John’s head, sending him to the floor. In a split-second, Jim’s eyes burn with rage. He steps over to John to stand above him and scream. “While we’re on the subject of Sherlock, your boyfriend has been PISSING ME OFF!”

John tries to get up on his hands and knees, blood already dripping down from his temple, but Jim shoves him down with a foot to his back. He stands firm and pushes down on John again.

“I will fucking kill him, John! FUCKING KILL HIM.” Jim takes his foot from John’s back, putting the gun back in his pocket. “And I know just how to do it.”

He kicks John in the stomach once, then a few more times, shouting and cursing Sherlock. John tries to roll over or stop Jim or move away, but with his head bleeding and his senses groggy, John cannot get his body to work properly. He is powerless to stop Jim’s attack and so he lies still and takes it, doing what he can to shield himself until Jim stops just as suddenly as he began. He squats down next to the fallen doctor, grabbing a handful of blonde hair and pulling his head up so he can look John in the eye.

“It was so perfect. Eliminate the target and take out a few of those fucking ministers at the same time. It’s just Sherlock’s FUCKING BROTHER after all. He doesn’t even like him!” He slams John’s face into the floor and raises it again to speak quietly in his ear. He nips at it as he speaks. “They have both gotten in my way for the last time.”

Jim chuckles loudly and rolls John onto his back, standing over him with a sickening smile on his face. He’s already unhooking his belt. John maintains the vehement glare he has rested on the man.

“Oh yes, love, I have big plans for them. And if all goes well, you will be more than ready to lend a helping hand when the time comes.”

“Fuck you,” John mutters, struggling to speak in an even tone. “I will never…help you.”

“Shh. Hush, love. Talking will only make the pain worse.” He removes his jacket, tosses it aside, and moves very close to John. “Now…I believe you owe me something, love. It’s been far too long. Far tooooo long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Moriarty is a bitch when he's angry. I know I'm really sticking it to my poor John. It's not because I don't love him. John is my absolute favorite character. Like I've said before, he's the sassy man version of me. With great challenge comes great strength. John's trials are my own exploration of strength and John Watson always comes out kicking ass. It looks pretty bleak now, but this too shall pass. The dawn coming our way. But beware for the darkest hour.
> 
> I want to draw your attention to the increase in chapters. Twelve will be the final number. And the number that will be counted is twelve. Thirteen is right out. And so is eleven, unless it be followed by twelve. (Mwahahaha! You guessed it. I'm in a mood again.)
> 
> I also want to apologize for the delay in getting this chapter out. I had planned it all out and someone nearly broke her arm over the weekend. Turns out that can change the best laid plans in a heartbeat. Go figure.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and loving. We're almost there! Persistence pays off. :D hahahahahaha. Sad, I know.  
> Until the next chapter, keep your pants dry, your dreams wet, and remember, hugs not drugs.  
> Love, Jane


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I considered a summary and then decided on no spoilers. Although I would like to add a disclaimer. I was watching/listening to Inception for the first time while writing this and I think it influenced me a bit. (shrug)  
> Happy reading, y'all.
> 
> **This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence.**

With his work at Parliament finished for the time being, Mycroft steps onto the lift and pushes the floor for his office. When the doors open, he walks briskly through the hall, nodding at his many operatives along the way as they make short reports on the status of several different operations. Anthea hands him a file folder and opens the office door, leaning close for a moment and whispering close to his ear. Mycroft closes his eyes and sighs as he walks into the room to find Sherlock, Greg, and Molly waiting for him. Before anyone can say a word, the elder Holmes updates them on Parliament.

“Moriarty’s informant has been identified and taken care of. He will no longer be a danger to anyone.”

“Did he give you information on John?” fury bubbles in Sherlock’s voice. Not only has he given in to Greg’s demands that they check on Mycroft’s progress in person, but they found Molly Hooper already there upon their arrival. The time between now and then was spent in an intense argument, interrupted only by Mycroft’s entrance. 

“No,” Mycroft purses his lips. Sherlock remains silent and seething. Greg looks sideways at the detective and steps forward.

“We’ve hit a dead end, Mycroft.”

“I don’t have any information for you,” he shakes his head at the DI.

“But you can get it,” Greg counters.

“No!” the elder Holmes shouts suddenly. The others are startled into silence by the man’s uncharacteristic outburst. He glances at Molly, who stares back with sad eyes, and quickly schools his expression. He looks at his brother and then at the DI. “I cannot help you. I must keep my distance this time. I’m sorry.”

“Mycroft,” Greg tries to sound calm, but his own anger is starting to show, “this is no time to…”

“I can’t!” Mycroft raises his voice, finally snapping. “I have to protect someone who is far more important to me than…” He closes his mouth with a click, suddenly realizing what he was about to say. He steps back quickly, away from Sherlock. “I’m sorry.”

No one says a word. No one can believe what he just confessed. All eyes are on Mycroft, but his are on Sherlock. Sherlock, whose hate burns hotter than the sun. 

“Goddammit, Mycroft! This is John we’re talking about!” Greg starts in loudly, no longer willing or able to contain his emotions.

“I am fully aware of that, Inspector.”

Greg continues shouting while Sherlock remains silent with a stony glare on his elder. Never in his life, not in all the years he has resented Mycroft for becoming his guardian instead of his sibling and friend, has Sherlock **ever** hated him so much. Mycroft eyes him uneasily, having given up trying to speak over the furious detective inspector. At that moment, something in his armor cracks. Mycroft has lost his baby brother once and for all, and he knows it.

To her credit, Molly immediately sees that something in Mycroft’s eyes has died. She turns to Greg in flash and grabs his arm.

“Come on, Greg,” she tugs. “Let’s give them a minute.”

“What?!” the DI barks.

“Greg, please,” her voice is loud and pleading. Greg looks down at her and tries to clear his head. Finally, he nods and lets her lead him from the room.

Mycroft looks at Sherlock warily once they are alone. He covers his mouth with one hand, the other hangs uselessly at his side. For the first time since their parents died and he had to give his little brother the news, Mycroft Holmes is at a complete loss. He watches his brilliant brother stare at him with furious eyes and knows, just as he did all those years ago, that he has failed Sherlock. The full weight of his guilt crushes his very soul. He drops both hands to his sides. 

“Sherlock…”

“You unbelievable bastard,” Sherlock cuts him off, eyes blazing. “You have interfered in my life from day one.”

“This is different, Sherlock.”

“How the HELL is this different?!” he shouts. “Oh, I know, because this is the only time it would make a difference to me! The only time I WANT YOUR help is the one you refuse!”

“Some things are more important…”

“NOTHING is more important than John!” Sherlock lunges forward and punches Mycroft square on the jaw. He staggers backward and puts a hand to his bloodied lip. Sherlock stares at him, his fists clenched at his sides. Mycroft pulls a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipes it over his lips, glaring with hard eyes at Sherlock.

“John would understand,” he snaps before he can think better of it.

“John would understand? John would…” Sherlock’s eyes widen in shock and anger. He considers hitting Mycroft again and even takes a step closer, but stops himself. Instead, he looks at his brother with the fury of hellfire blazing in his eyes, his voice like poison. “WE. ARE. DONE.”

Sherlock pushes passed him and walks out of the office. Mycroft presses his hands to his forehead and closes his eyes, knowing he will not see Sherlock again. He promised their parents he would always look after his baby brother and has always done his best, but he now sees how terribly he has failed him. Mycroft raises his head proudly and sits at his desk primly. He carefully places his elbows on his desk, bows his head into his hands, and cries.

***

John opens his eyes. He is lying on the floor, but not in his rooms on the island. John is in a room with plain white walls, and a floor and ceiling to match. Bright light surrounds him with warmth. He has no idea where he is, but feels safe and relaxed. He is wearing what looks like white surgical scrubs. He stares up at the ceiling and lets out a deep breath, closing his eyes. As soon as they are closed, John notices a familiar scent in the air around him. A deep, rich voice finds his ears.

“Hello, John.”

John’s eyes fly open and he turns his head to face the man at his side.

“Sherlock!” he breathes in shock.

“How are you?”

“God, I miss you,” John smiles warmly, ignoring his flatmate’s question. “You look gorgeous.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes upward in mock thought.

“Not really what I asked,” he teases. John bites his lip. He doesn’t want to tell him. He doesn’t want to say a word. But he does.

“I’ve been better. It’s hard, Sherlock. I’ve…done things. Awful things.”

“It’s all right.”

“How can you say that?” John plunges ahead. “You don’t know. You have no idea. I’m afraid you won’t want me back. If…I ever get away.”

“Nothing, John. Nothing will ever make me turn away from you,” he touches John’s face gently and the warmth from those fingertips floods through John’s body. “I will love you until the day I die.” His thumb slides over John’s cheek to wipe away a tear. “You will escape. You will leave this place.”

He moves closer to John. Their faces are inches apart. They breathe the same breath. Share the same soul. John closes his eyes and lets it all sweep over him.

“I will find you,” Sherlock whispers. “Hold on, John. I’m coming.”

Sherlock gently touches slightly parted lips to John’s and stays still, giving John the chance to feel the softness and warmth of his lips. John slowly parts his own and allows his tongue to explore cautiously, gliding over his flatmate’s plush lips.  _ God. _ Sherlock responds in kind and deepens the kiss. John is in heaven. With Sherlock’s mouth against his, his hand on John’s cheek, that distinctive scent filling his nose - John feels like he is home. It’s a sensation he thought he would never experience again. 

When their lips finally part, Sherlock looks deeply into John’s eyes. The corners of his mouth twitch up. His voice is like silk.

“I’ll find you.”

“John! John!” Mary’s voice sounds panicked and far away. John struggles to open his eyes and slowly Mary’s face comes into focus. Sherlock and the white room are gone. John is back in his rooms on the island and Mary is hovering over the bed next to him, her eyes filled with fear. John looks at her and tries to sit up. “Oh, John, thank god. No! Don’t try to sit up.” He winces and lies down again. “God, I knew there was something wrong when you didn’t come to lunch. What has he done to you?”

“Lunch?” John blinks his eyes and looks at her in confusion, still in a haze. “What are you doing here?”

“We agreed to meet for lunch today. I waited for two hours.”

“Jim,” John gasps as his mind begins to clear. “Jim was here. He stayed while you were gone. You have to go. He’ll be back.”

“To hell with that. I’m not leaving you here with that monster.”

John tries to sit up again, but stops. This time it isn’t the pain so much as his state of dress that strikes him. John is lying on his bed, covered by a sheet and not a stitch more. He pushes through the ache in his head and looks at Mary with apprehensive eyes. 

“Where the hell are my clothes?”

“I don’t know,” Mary admits, shaking her head. “You weren’t wearing any when I found you. John, you’re covered with cuts and bruises.”

“I’ll be fine. Just help me up.”

Mary wants to object. She wants to look after him right there on the torn and bloodstained sheets, but quickly decides it better to go along with John. She can only imagine what he has been through the 48 hours and does not need to make it worse by upsetting him. Reluctantly, she helps him up and holds him steady while he tries to get his bearings.

“I need a shower.”

“Right,” Mary nods. “Not too fast now.”

John clutches the sheet around his body as she helps him walk to the next room. When they reach the shower, John reaches in and turns on the water. Leaning forward to rest his forehead against the wall, he closes his eyes in pain.

“Are you okay? Do you need help in the shower?”

John’s eyes snap open and he turns toward her quickly, crossing an arm over the lower half of his chest and wincing. He is still so dizzy. Does he have bruised ribs? He blinks twice slowly and meets her eyes.

“No,” John breathes as deeply as he can, trying to calm down. “Thanks, I’ll be fine. I just need to go slowly.”

“You’re sure?” Mary asks tentatively. John nods and, although her eyes are still filled with worry, Mary nods and walks to the door. “Yell if you need anything.”

John sighs when the door clicks shut and allows his shoulders to sag. He drops the sheet and looks down at his body. Mary is right - cuts and bruises abound. Some of the deepest purple bruises are six inches in diameter. John sighs again, touching one on his thigh and inching into the warm water. Closing his eyes and losing himself in the comforting streams cascading down his body, John tries to block out everything in his mind that isn’t Sherlock with minimal success. His memories of the last two days are foggy at best. Scenes and feelings drift in and out of his consciousness without warning. Hitting, kicking, hands on his throat, his head slamming into the floor or the headboard again and again. Jim’s voice shouting and cursing Sherlock. Pain. The feeling of being ripped apart at the seams. Then Jim’s face. Those murderous, hungry eyes. Those lips pressing against John’s body. Against **every** part of him.

John cries out before he can even process what he’s doing and his knees buckle under the overwhelming force of the memories. He huddles into a corner of the shower and hugs his legs close. A moment later, there’s a knock on the door. His shoot to it in fear.

“John?” Mary’s voice is timid. “John, are you okay?”

“Would you come in please?” he answers after a moment. The door opens slowly. Mary’s eyes grow wide at the scene before her.

“John,” she breathes, stepping in. “What do you need?”

“Would you grab a flannel and lather it for me?”

“Of course.”

Mary does everything he asks and talks to him quietly as he washes his body. She seems to know when he wants her to look away and when he doesn’t want her help. They are so well tuned to one another. Still, it would be a hell of a lot easier if Sherlock was there instead of her.  _ Sherlock. _ But he isn’t. John is suddenly filled with an unbearable sadness. He looks at Mary with sad, lost eyes.

“Sherlock,” he whispers so quietly she can barely hear, “I’ll never see him again, will I?”

“Oh, John,” Mary touches his arm gently. “You’ll see him again. You will.”

***

Once he is out of the shower and dressed in boxer shorts, John asks Mary to help him take stock of his injuries. She cringes at his every movement as he climbs onto the bed, now made with fresh linens. Each one obviously brings him pain, though he tries to hide it.

“Concussion, a few bruised ribs, nothing broken. A LOT of superficial bruises and lacerations. Some bruises quite sizeable, but at least I don’t need any stitches. Not nearly as bad as I feared, given the amount of pain. No internal injuries so far as I can tell and no excessive bleeding.”

“I don’t know you can be so casual about all this. You’re badly hurt, John.”

“I was in the army,” he shrugs.

“Were you?” Mary asks with curioustity. 

“Captain. Fifth Northumberland…” he trails off, not sure if he wants to tell her about that part of his life just now. “Never mind. I’ll be fine.”

“John, he… You can’t stay here,” she watches as he tries to get comfortable. “This isn’t a healthy relationship.”

John just laughs, which she finds more than mildly disturbing.

“I don’t know what happened between you and Sherlock, but you can’t be here with Moriarty anymore. They never change and he’ll do it again,” she pauses, afraid to ask the next question. “How many times has he done this?”

John lets the mirthless smile slip from his face and looks at her with soft eyes that slowly harden. He shakes his head and looks away.

“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

“Jesus, John! Stop trying to protect me or deny it or whatever the hell it is you’re doing. Just tell me what’s going on.” She watches him with a look of annoyance and determination. “How many times has he done this?”

“Sometimes you remind me so much of Sherlock,” he sighs and meets her eyes again. Mary’s face softens. She sits on the edge of the bed and takes John’s hand in one of her own. The other sweeps the fringe off of his forehead gently.

“John, listen to me. Let me help you,” pausing a moment to let that sink in, Mary tries again. “How many times has Moriarty done this to you?”

He looks at her. She looks so worried and sincere. John swallows audibly.

“Every night since he brought me here,” John’s voice trembles. Mary’s mouth falls open. She has no idea what she was expecting, but that was not it. She wants to say something, do something, but can’t find the words and she can’t seem to move her body.

“The sex has always been rough, but the real violence only just started. Maybe a handful of times before, but then that time you were here. And the last couple days...” John looks down at his own hands. They are shaking and it’s getting worse. “I usually just go along with it. He...threatens Sherlock. Someone is always watching him and if I don’t do what he says, Jim will have him killed.” 

“Oh my god,” Mary’s eyes are shining as she listens to John. Something inside her, a piece of her heart is dying for the man in front of her. She wants so much to hold him in her arms and tell him she will take him away from here.  Her friend will pick them both up and take them away. She will hide him. Forever, if she has to. But Mary knows now that John would never go with her. He is protecting Sherlock. John has always been protecting Sherlock. Every night he has suffered through was an effort to protect the man she was told he was trying to get away from. Mary swallows hard and asks in a small voice. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Why?” John huffs a laugh. “I don’t even know where the hell I am. I didn’t know if you were working with Jim or even knew anything about this.”

The words sting, but they are understandable. Mary can see why he would be suspicious of her. 

“Okay. I get that,” she says after a long moment. “You needed to know which side I was on.” They share a meaningful look. Eventually, Mary wets her lips and asks in a hesitant voice. “What are you going to do? When you get home, I mean. Are you going to tell Sherlock?”

“Yes.. I can’t keep it from him,” John tells her, shaking his head. “I’ve kept things from him before. I won’t do it again.”

Mary looks at him for a long time, watching his face. The way the skin under his eyes flexes when he is resolute. The way his brows arch and then furrow when he is in pain. Oh, how she would love to know this man. To know everything about him. What must it be like to be boyfriend Sherlock?

“What will he…do? How will he…”

“It’ll destroy him.” Silence fills the air around them and then John continues, sounding a bit more hopeful. “But we’ll be okay. Eventually. I love him, Mary. I love him so much and he loves me. He’ll find me.”

“Tell me where he is,” she says suddenly, her voice full of new resolve. “Tell me, John. Who is he? I’ll find him.”

“What? No. I won’t put you in danger. I won’t ask you to do that.”

“You aren’t asking me,” Mary insists. She stares him down with hard, determined eyes. She must help John and, if she can’t take him off the island, she’ll do the next best thing. “Tell me.”

John opens his mouth to speak, but the words die on his tongue. They hear noises outside the bedroom door. Footsteps on the stairs getting closer. John’s eyes go wide.

“Shit. He’s back. He’s back! Get out of sight.”

“Give me his name,” Mary demands quietly.

“Just get in the closet and don’t come out!” John rasps back. Mary scampers silently to the closet door and pulls it nearly shut, but leaves a crack open.

“John, tell me!” she whispers tersely, peeking out at him. He shakes his head emphatically, looking from her to the bedroom door. But then she whines and, by god, if she doesn’t sound just like his flatmate affecting a higher tone. “Jaw-awn!”

His eyes snap back to meet hers, then shoot to the turning doorknob, and then back to her.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he breathes. Mary ducks out of sight as Jim walks into the room. He stops in front of the door and smiles at John, closing it behind. John sits still as stone on the bed, eyeing him uneasily, hoping he didn’t see or hear anything that would lead him to suspect that John isn’t alone.

“Good evening.”

John watches as Jim walks slowly to his bedside, examining every inch of John that he can see. John pushes himself up so he’s sitting tall and straightens his neck defiantly.

“Admiring your handiwork?” he asks. Jim licks his lips and steps even closer. His hand cups John’s purple cheek. His palm cradled around a long wound, red with clotted blood.

“I’m glad you were able to fix yourself up. I knocked you around too much this time, I admit that. I’m glad you’re all right.”

“All right? You call this all right?”

“That shot with the gun was a sucker punch. I’m sorry about that, love, but you’re so strong. I needed the upper hand.” Jim’s hand slides to John’s bicep and gives it a squeeze. He grins salaciously, a hungry look in his eyes. “I love the feeling of those muscles straining against me. I have some handcuffs that would certainly make things interesting.”

“You try it and I’ll…” John growls, but Jim interrupts him with a laugh.

“You’ll what? Kill me? And Sherlock right along with me?” he leans in closer and shakes his head. “Oh, no, John. You won’t do that. You’ll do exactly what I tell you. Exactly what I want.”

“Fuck you.”

Jim swiftly covers John’s mouth with his own, forcing his tongue passed those soft lips to manhandle the tongue within. When he pulls away, he licks John’s lips slowly and then whispers in his ear when John turns his face away.

“I don’t think I have to tell you what will happen if you choose not to obey.” John’s body goes taut at his words, every muscle tensing in an instant. “If I say kiss me, your lips are on mine. Touch me and you get to work. Suck me off…” he smiles and licks John’s ear. John can’t stop from shuddering. “You know where your mouth will be.”

Jim kisses very slowly along John’s jawline, brushes their lips together, and hovers close.

“Did you just shiver?” feeling John’s warm breath, he closes his eyes and whispers. “Kiss me, John.”

John complies immediately, thrusting his tongue into Jim’s open mouth. It moves over Jim’s tongue in ways he has never felt with his captive before. Fireworks blast behind Jim’s eyelids. He grabs John’s body tightly as he flops on the bed unceremoniously and presses his own against it. John tilts his head to deepen the kiss and places his own hands on either side of Jim’s face. Jim melts at his touch, every touch. When their lips finally part, both men gasp for air, breath still hot on one another’s face.

“God damn, John, are you sure you’re not trying to seduce me?”

“Not likely,” John smiles against his lips. He whips his head back and headbutts Jim. Shoving him off the bed and out of his way, John tries to climb off the other side of the bed as quickly as he is able. Unfortunately, it is not nearly fast enough. Jim pops back up from the floor and grabs John, pulling him down onto the bed, flat on his back.

“I love that spirit!” Jim cackles viciously, biting out the words. He punches John’s ribs four or five times in rapid succession. John groans loudly in pain and snarls with clenched teeth.

“Goddammit!”

Jim yanks at John’s hair and thrusts his face dangerously close to John’s.

“That didn’t hurt as much as I thought it might. Just bruised then and not broken. I can change that.”

“God!!!” John shouts with all the hate of the world behind his breath. “I hate you so much.”

“I can change that too.”

“You will NEVER change that!”

“So you say,” Jim soothes, touching his fingers to John’s face gingerly between bruises and bandages. The look on his face is almost surprise. “My god, John, what have I done to you?”

“What did you expect? This is what it looks like when you kick the shit out of someone,” John looks him right in the eye, broadcasting his every desire to rip Jim’s throat out. But he can’t. He can’t because of Sherlock, even as much as he fucking wants to. Damn you, Sherlock Holmes.  _ No! NO!!  _ It isn’t Sherlock’s fault. None of this is Sherlock’s fault! Jim will not turn John against the love of his life. No amount of torture can do it. Jim will never win. 

“I’m sorry, love,” is all Jim says dreamily. He seems to be completely unaware of war waging in John’s mind. His eyes are tender and his voice quiet. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! Why are you acting this way?” John is shouting, mad with fury, and tired of being jerked around. None of this makes sense. None of it. “You try to break my ribs and then apologize for trying to kill me?! You’re a fucking psycho!”

“No!” Jim forces John to keep looking at him. “I took you because I wanted you and I have loved every minute. But I want more. I want to worship you the way he does. I want you to worship me. I want you to love me, John Watson. I want to love you.”

John’s eyes widen in disbelief. This can’t be happening. Is Jim fucking with him again? He looks so terrifyingly sincere. John’s mouth tightens into a thin line.  _ Fuck this. Whatever he’s trying to do. Fuck it.  _ John speaks in a low, dangerous voice. 

“You. Will  **NEVER** . Know what love is. And you will  **never** get it from me.”

At first, Jim looks sad. All around is silent and it feels like the world is moving in slow motion. Jim’s voice drifts through the air between them. 

“I was angry with him. It won’t happen again.”

Then Jim’s lips spread open to reveal a horrifyingly heinous smile and time suddenly moves in fast forward. He punches John’s ribs again and laughs loudly.

“Or maybe it will!” he cackles again. Louder this time. “You’re rather more fun when you fight me. More likely to make some noise too.”

“You fucking prick!” John swings his fist and makes contact with jim’s jaw just before a stab of pain wrenches its way through John’s body. He crumples, winds his arms around his own ribs, and shouts. “I will snap your fucking neck! The minute Sherlock is safe, I will break your fucking neck!”

“You always have to protect him, no matter what the cost, don’t you?” Jim rants with a furious gleam in his eyes, his own adrenaline hastening his recovery from the punch. “You’re so noble, John. So noble. Too bad it isn’t going to help you this time.”

In spite of the pain and the risk to himself, John grabs a handful of greasy black hair and pulls Jim close to his face.

“Noble? You misjudge me, Jim. I am more like you than you think. And I. Will. Burn. The heart. Out of you.”

Jim’s eyes widen and his face pales at the sound of his own words thrown back at him. Acting quickly, he punches the same spot on John’s ribs and they both hear a distinctive crack. The doctor crumbles and lurches away from Jim, clenching his teeth and groaning sharply, but Jim drags him back.

“You will not defy me! You are mine, so get used to it. You’ll be a lot happier.”

“Never be happy with you,” John declares, breathless with agony. Jim takes John’s chin in his hand and meets his eyes. Somehow, he seems calm again.

“Try, love. Not for me. For you.”

“Fuck…off.”

Jim presses his lips to John’s and bites hungrily. He mauls John outright, ravaging his mouth viciously. When he pulls back, the poor man’s lips are pink and swollen and sure to bruise. John glares at him through his exhaustion. Jim just smiles back and kisses his nose.

“Let’s have a kip, shall we, love? You look so tired,” Jim smiles and climbs onto the bed, pulling John’s body close to his. John resists as best he can, only to be punched in the ribs again. He clenches his jaw hard to keep from crying out in pain and relents, convinced at least two ribs are broken. As Jim snuggles nauseatingly close behind, John resolves not to sleep and to leave the bed as soon as Jim is asleep. Unfortunately, his mutinous body fails him and he is asleep in minutes. Jim buries his nose in John’s delicious blonde hair and and dozes off too.

***

Much later, long after Jim has awoken and left the room, Mary sneaks out of the closet and goes to John. She touches his face gently so as not to wake him and kisses his forehead. She tries to swallow back her sobs and fails. Mary stands there, next to John at the bed, weeping quietly. Christ, she’d love to kill Moriarty herself. Trying to collect herself, Mary wipes her face with the back of her hand and hardens her eyes. 

“I’ll find him, John. I’ll find him and be back as soon as I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just post last night? I did! I think I did. I just can't help myself.
> 
> One chapter left! One. Chapter. Yikes, this gonna be good! I don't even want to say anything or give anything away. So...I'll just go Deadpool style.  
> WTF is wrong with you, Mycroft? Just keep pushing him away, why don't ya.  
> Isn't Greg the best?  
> Has Molly finally stopped listening to Mycroft?  
> Wait, what? John!  
> How will John survive?  
> How will Sherlock survive?  
> Just who the hell is Mary anyway?
> 
> Tune in (hopefully tomorrow) to read THE FINAL CHAPTER!!!!!!  
> Thank you again for all your love and support! I love you all! You are the best fans a gal could ask for!  
> Much love always, Jane


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, no spoilers.  
> But guess who didn't drown...  
> Okay, now no spoilers.
> 
> **Section 3 begins with a very short account of rape. If that is a trigger, just start reading at the dialogue I have underlined. This section is also rife with depiction of violence and torture. Tread carefully.**
> 
> My poor precious John. :,(

Irene Adler walks into her study to retrieve a file she needs to carry out a very sensitive business matter. What she finds instead is a very quiet, very sexy Sherlock Holmes holding said file. She enters the room with a smile on her face that is somewhere between pleasant surprise and annoyance, closing the door behind and taking a few steps forward. She strikes a pose with a hand on her hip and raises a brow.

“Sherlock Holmes. How do you always find me?”

“Homing device. I planted it on you long ago,” he glares. “Much like the one Moriarty used for John.” 

“I see,” she replies in a tone that’s all business. “What do you want?”

“I think you know.”

She smiles wryly and walks casually to the bar to pour herself a whiskey sour.

“I can’t help you with James Moriarty.”

Sherlock cocks a brow and narrows his eyes. She turns around to face him, leaning her hips on the bar, and taking a sip from the short glass.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“The last time I helped you,” she regards him with a tight smile, “Jim reminded me as to why no one crosses him.”

“Surely you don’t bend to his will.”

“No, I don’t, but I do have a significant interest in preserving my life. And I have officially retired,” she says with a condescending smile, gesturing to the lavish home they are in, “Again. Now, it’s no secret that I enjoy your company, but I’m afraid I have to ask you to stop visiting.”

“I am sorry if my appearance is inconvenient,” he begins coldly, straightening to his full height, “but there is  **nothing** in this world that will stop me from doing whatever I can to get John Watson away from Moriarty. He is my life.”

“How long has he been missing?”

“Just over six weeks.”

Irene nearly spits the whiskey right out of her mouth. She wipes her blood red lips with her fingertips and looks at him with wide eyes.

“He’s not yours anymore. He belongs to Jim Moriarty now and I’m sure he’s made his mark to prove it,” the Woman states grimly. She places her drink on the bar and toes off one of her startlingly sharp stilettos. Sherlock furrows his brow in thought. She can’t possibly know about the new scars on John’s arm. She raises her clever eyes to meet his and twists her foot so he can see its sole. The detective’s eyes widen. The letters JM have been burned into the skin.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Irene flashes an angry smile as she turns her foot again and slips it back in the pump. She grabs her whiskey and takes a long drink, speaking again before Sherlock can say a word. “It was a fairly minor transgression as Jim saw it, so he didn’t kill me. Not to mention that he knew he could take John again. This time, to a better hiding place. More remote.”

She turns her back on the detective and pours herself another drink. Turning to gaze at Sherlock again, she sips from the glass more casually.

“You’ll be lucky to get John back without one of these. Jim likes to claim what’s his. You’ll be lucky to get John back at all.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but looks at her somberly. She straightens her spine and raises her chin into the air, giving him a stubborn glare.

“I can’t help you, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I only wish I could,” she takes another drink. “I hope you find John. I really do. He doesn’t like me, but he’s a good man and he loves you.”

She walks toward him, stopping just outside of his personal space and taking the file from his hand. Looking up into his silver eyes, she stares him down with unparalleled intensity.

“Maybe you should travel once he’s safe. Relax a little. You could even marry. Mycroft must have a private island full of prickly pears somewhere.”

“Perhaps,” the detective raises a brow. They scan one another’s eyes for a few seconds longer than is normal, then Sherlock steps away from her and strides to the door. He opens it to leave, but stops and looks back.

“Thank you.”

“Ciao.”

And he’s gone.

***

Sherlock hails a cab and quietly pieces together Irene’s clues as he travels to Baker Street. He also pulls his mobile from his coat pocket to summon Greg with a text. Once he has finished, he looks out the window restlessly. It is covered with drips and streams of water from the heavy rain that has plagued London the last few days. Sherlock watches as it falls on the pavement. He watches the people who hurry though the city in the downpour. What is it like where John is? What has Moriarty done to him? Has he burned him like he did Irene?

Sherlock is lost in thought when the cab stops and only snaps out of his trance when the cabbie prompts him. He pays, gets out of the car, and walks to the door of 221. He pauses, his eyes falling to the knob. God, how he wishes John was inside waiting for him. Sitting in his chair with a newspaper in his hands and his feet propped up, legs stretched in between their two chairs. Sherlock would cross the room and look at him haughtily, but only for show. John would know in an instant that Sherlock had no malice and actually just wanted to sit on John’s lap and snog him senseless. John would close the paper and make a smart comment, and then Sherlock would pounce.

Pulling himself from his thoughts, Sherlock unlocks the door and takes the stairs two at a time. Once he is inside the flat, he strides through to the dining table, grabbing his laptop along the way, and placing it on the table. After a few minutes of expeditious typing, he hears the footfalls of Greg Lestrade on the stairs. Sherlock glances his way as the man enters the room and takes his place next to the detective. Greg looks over his shoulder to see a map of the Mediterranean just before Sherlock zooms in on Italy and the surrounding area.

“Italy. You said that in your text as well. What makes you think he’s in Italy?”

“I did not say Italy,” Sherlock corrects him. “He’s not in Italy itself, but somewhere close.”

“Sherlock, do you have any idea how many other countries and islands are around Italy?”

“Yes, I do know,” he answers shortly. “Even if I didn’t, I am looking at a map of the area now.”

“Right, right,” Greg sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I only meant we have to narrow the field a bit.”

“Haven’t we had this conversation before?” the detective snaps, impatience in his eyes and seeping from every pore. They stare at one another for a few seconds and then hear the front door to the flat open and close. Molly’s footstep echo as she nearly runs down the hall. Sherlock straightens up and looks at Greg in disbelief. “What the fuck is she doing here?”

“I asked her to come,” Greg answers in his “I’m the DI and don’t fuck with me” voice. If Molly notices they are in the middle of a disagreement when she rushes into the room, she doesn’t show it. 

“Have you found John?” she asks breathlessly. “Where is he?”

“Italy.”

“An island NEAR Italy,” Sherlock grumbles, returning his attention to the map.

“What - like Sicily?”

Greg shrugs. She turns her gaze to Sherlock, whose silver eyes are roving over the laptop’s screen.

“A private island. It has to be private,” he is almost whispering to himself now, eyes scanning carefully. “In the Aeolian Islands.”

“The Aeolians?” Molly frowns. “How can you be sure?”

“Prickly pears are native only to the Americas, but have been introduced to many areas with arid conditions. The islands are known as an area where they flourish. It also has to be an area in which Italian is spoken or she wouldn’t have said ciao,” he gives her a very serious side glance to emphasize his words. “She doesn’t say ciao.”

“ **She** doesn’t?” Molly exchanges a confused look with Greg while Sherlock continues whispering.

“A private island, a private… It must be uncharted. Damn it!” He pushes himself away from the table and runs his hands through his curls in frustration. Resting his palms on the top of his head, he looks up at the ceiling and lets out an angry breath. “Even on the most current maps, there is nothing. There has to be some way to find it.”

“What about Mycroft?” Greg suggests carefully. He nearly thinks better of it, knowing it could earn him a punch to the jaw, but decides to go with it. “Would he be able to find it?”

“Possibly,” the detective growls. “If he bothers to help us.”

Sherlock lets his arms drop to his sides and stalks away from the table. As he nears the fireplace, he looks up at the mantle. Some time ago, shortly after he crushed the skull that used to rest upon it, Sherlock placed a framed photograph of John in its place. He meets John’s eyes and tilts his head sentimentally. John’s eyes are so clear and blue and sincere. He purses his lips. They used to have entire conversations with just their eyes and expressions. Sherlock tilts his head even further to the side and blinks slowly. 

Suddenly struck by an idea, he twirls around and points at the other two, poised to speak.

“What is it, Sherlock?” Molly gasps. “Where is he?”

Before he can answer, Sherlock’s mobile sounds, but he ignores it and begins rattling off deductions. Greg listens intently, but Molly can’t help looking at the mobile laying on the table. With her heart in her throat, she darts forward and grabs it. She stands and stares at it for a few seconds and then thrusts it at Sherlock.

“Look!” she shouts. “Will you shut up and look!”

Sherlock glares at the woman with every intention of lashing out at her, but is startled into silence when he reads the call’s origin. He steps closer and takes the phone from Molly’s hand. The word “Italy” flashes on its screen and the phone sounds again. Looking at the other two, he hastily pushes a button and puts it to his ear.

“John?”

There is a long pause. He can hear someone breathing and listens carefully for any other sound, anything that could clue him in to where the caller is. He hears a sharp inhale of breath.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Who is this?”

“A friend of John’s.”

Sherlock hesitates, wetting his lips and trying stay calm.

“Where is he?”

“On a private island.”

“In the Aeolians.”

“Yes,” the woman, it is a higher pitched voice, is obviously startled. “How did you…”

“Where is it? It’s uncharted.”

“Five miles northeast of Filicudi.” 

She gives him the coordinates before he can even ask and he commits them to memory in a split-second. He wants to ask who she is, how she knows John, if he’s hurt, but she cuts him off uttering one last word before ending the call. 

“Hurry.”

***

John squeezes his eyes tightly shut and prays it will end soon. Every time since the incident at Parliament has been more and more violent. John has not seen Mary since he gave her Sherlock’s surname. He has, however, had Jim as a near constant companion. John tries to keep himself from suspecting her, but cannot shake the feeling that Mary may actually be working with Jim after all. Why would she disappear at precisely this moment when he has the most hope of escape? He tries to convince himself it is only because Jim has not left his side, but his wherewithal is getting thin. Jim’s presence and torture and assaults are quickly becoming too much to bear.

Jim snaps his hips again and again, grunting and shuddering.

“Look at me, John. Look at me!” He presses a hand on John’s ribs hard, forcing John to open his eyes and meet his own. It pushes Jim right over the edge, crying out and coming into John. John scrunches up his face in pain and stares at Jim, hating every fiber of his being. His hands are fists at his sides. He wants to hit him. God, how he wants to get his hands around Jim’s throat. But when he kills Jim, he kills Sherlock, and John will not allow that. Whatever it means for him, he will not allow Sherlock to be hurt.

“Tell me you love me,” Jim moans loudly. He presses harder on John’s ribs when he doesn’t answer. “Say you love me!”

“No,” John mutters through clenched teeth.

Jim presses his lips to John’s and bites. He pulls back with a mad grin on his face and wipes blood from his mouth. Then, very unexpectedly, he sits up and leaps off the bed. Finally free, John closes his eyes in anguish and rolls onto his side, his arms wrapped around his aching ribs. It takes a full minute before he realizes a series of whispered words fall from his lips.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Suddenly Jim is back, tossing pants and pajama bottoms at John. He has put on jeans and a t-shirt that reads “You should see me in a crown”.

“Put these on.”

John reaches for the clothing and slowly pulls them on, pain shooting through his body with every movement. He falls back onto the bed as soon as he finishes and stares up at the ceiling, breathing hard. Every breath burns and pain radiates up his left side. He clenches his teeth and traces his fingers along his rib cage, searching for the broken ones, certain that at least one more is.

Meanwhile, Jim climbs back on the bed and straddles John’s waist, pinning him down again. He takes advantage of John’s search to wield a knife he collected in the kitchen and slashes John’s right shoulder. Taken completely off-guard, John cries out in pain and grabs at the wound. Jim snatches at John’s arms and pins them down at his sides beneath his knees. John grunts in pain and anger, knowing full well Jim can only manage all this because of John’s injuries, which is exactly why John has them. Jim is smart and has no problem using torture to give him the advantage.

John looks up at his captor with furious eyes and sees a spray of his own blood across Jim’s white tee. Jim is still wearing that mad smile. He places the point of the knife in the center of the deep slash with extreme care and begins pushing in slowly, his black eyes staring down at John. John’s eyes go wide, his mouth open and gasping. He strains against Jim’s body and clamps his mouth shut, barely able to swallow his screams.

“Say you love me,” Jim whispers. John can only shake his head. “Say it, John.”

He pushes the knife deeper and John’s mouth falls open again in a silent scream. His eyes are wide in agony and horror.

“No,” he manages to whisper.

Jim pulls the blade up a bit and then thrusts it deeper. John screams.

“SAY IT!”

John tries to struggle and only increases the pain, unintentionally forcing the knife in further. He swallows hard and tries to quiet his mind, pull himself together. Licking his lip, he chokes out the words.

“Why do you want me to say things I’ll never mean?”

“Because one day, you will,” Jim assures him. He leans in close and pushes at the knife as he goes. John’s face crumples. Tears fall from his eyes when he closes them. “Say it, John, or I’ll bring Sherlock to this island and flay him while you watch.”

John’s eyes fly open to stare at Jim in terror. His head twitches lightly as he tries to hold back sobs. Completely gutted, John blinks his eyes a few times, tears falling from both and running down his cheeks.

“I love you,” John says quietly. Jim closes his eyes and sighs.

“You see, that wasn’t so hard,” he leans down and kisses John softly. He lingers over John’s face, their lips so close together.

When Jim sits up again, he slowly draws the blade from John’s shoulder. John’s body tenses and shudders. As soon as the knife is no longer embedded in John’s skin, Jim holds it to his throat, tucked neatly under John’s chin in a silent reminder not to move. He reaches for the table beside the bed and comes back with a folded up cloth he pushes against John’s shoulder to stop the bleeding.

“Just stay still, love. We wouldn’t want this bleeding to get out of control.” After a minute or two of  conversation John pays zero attention to, Jim clicks his tongue as if he’s scolding a child. “Hm. This isn’t helping at all, but don’t worry. I have a better plan.”

He pulls the knife away from John’s throat and clamps his left hand down on it to hold the man still. John follows the blade with his eyes as it hovers over his face and to the bedside table. Jim lays down the knife and flicks on a handheld butane torch that sits on the table. It springs to life, the open flame dancing before their eyes. Jim picks up the knife again and puts the blade directly in the flame, heating it to a dangerous degree.

John’s eyes widen in panic. There is only one thing Jim could have planned for that blade and the fresh wound on John’s shoulder. He twists under Jim’s body, but only succeeds in causing more blood to ooze from his shoulder.

“Jesus! NO!”

Jim speaks thoughtfully as he watches the sharp metal heat up, turning it periodically and grinning wildly. John continues to struggle, damning himself for being so weakened by both shoulders now, half wondering if Jim slipped something into his food as well.

“You know, I haven’t been devoting the time to you that I should. My plans for the Ice Man would’ve worked if you had been ready to distract Sherlock for me.”

John takes his eyes off the blade long enough to glare at Jim. He bites out his next words, his voice so low and full of hate that he doesn’t sound like himself to even his own ears.

“I will never be under your control.”

“Really, John? Aren’t you already?”

“You will never turn me against Sherlock.”

“We’ll see about that, love,” Jim smiles down at him. “I’ve bent stronger men than you to my will.” 

“You’ve never met anyone as strong as me,” John growls. Jim meets his eyes as he removes the knife from the torch and brings it close to John’s cheek. 

“Don’t worry, love. It will only hurt for a minute.”

“God, no!” John struggles against Jim and the sharp pain racking his body. “NO!”

The moment the metal touches his skin, John’s world blanks into nothing but white, hot pain radiating through his body. His vision blurs with the tears flooding his eyes and he hears a distant voice screaming unintelligible words. A few more seconds go by before he realizes it’s his own voice and he’s begging. Begging Jim to stop. Begging Sherlock to find him. Begging for it to be over. 

As Jim slowly moves the knife over the length of the slash, John’s mind snaps back to reality. Jim pauses for a moment to insert the burning sharp edge into the hole he just dug into John’s shoulder. John renews his struggle, thrashing around as best he can. Jim finishes cauterizing the wound as John continues trying to pull his arms from where they are stuck tightly under Jim’s knees. John is getting so tired. He doesn’t want to move anymore. His body is screaming at him to stop fighting, but John can’t stop. He won’t stop. He will never stop trying to escape, to fight back.

“God, stop. Just stop,” John’s voice is quiet and exhausted. “Jim...please.”

“You’re only making it take longer,” Jim sing-songs at him, stopping for a moment to heat the blade again. “Just calm down, love.”

“No!” John protests loudly, watching the knife moving closer again. He clenches his jaw and groans as Jim begins again, retracing his work to make sure he didn’t miss anything.

When he completes his work, Jim takes the knife from John’s skin and admires his handiwork. John looks up to see Jim smiling with pride. He glances at his own shoulder, at the terribly burned and marred skin, red and bloody. John feels sick, but swallows down the nausea. Jim leans over him, getting right up into his business, and devours John’s neck. He bites and mouths and licks, finally finishing with a long lick up along John’s jaw to his ear.

“You are so delicious,” Jim is whispering. “When I’m finished with you, you will BEG me to make you come.” He giggles and licks John’s ear. “And you will rue the day you met Sherlock Holmes.”

He sits up again and grins, looking more insane by the minute. John watches as he returns the blade to the torch. Jim is watching too. His eyes dance as the knife heats up.

“This seems like the perfect time to really put my mark on you, love,” he meets John’s eyes. “I did your arm, I know, but this is my signature, my brand. No one will question whether or not you belong to me ever again.” He leans down close to John’s face and kisses his mouth, biting harshly at his bottom lip. “Are you ready, love? I promise I’ll be gentle.”

“NO!!”

Trying desperately not to panic, John does the only thing he can think of and headbutts Jim hard. The man reels back, giving John the opportunity to push him off his body and to the floor. Though his own head is cloudy from the impact, John pushes himself up with his left arm, finding he cannot move his right arm at all. Ignoring the pain as best he can, John scrambles to his feet and flees from the room.

He flings open the door to his room and moves quickly to the stairs, nearly falling as he goes. When he reaches the house’s front door, John throws it open and himself tumbles out onto the porch. John runs and runs and runs without looking back. Every part of his body hurts. His ribs and shoulder are the worst, almost unbearable, but he can’t stop. He can’t. John clutches at his right arm with his left hand, crossing his left arm over his ribs in an effort to support them. John’s pace is already slowing. It probably wasn’t that quick to begin with. If he hadn’t knocked Jim’s head and shoved him to the ground so hard, the man would have caught him up by now. John is walking now, as quickly as he can. He knows there’s nowhere to go, but still, he’ll never stop. Or so he thinks…

In a few minutes, he finds himself at the same cliff he nearly stepped off of nearly seven weeks ago and he is suddenly still as stone. John steps to the edge and looks down into the waves crashing on the rocks below. This is his only escape. The only way he can get away from Jim. The only way. John steps even closer to the edge and feels his body sway as a strong wind blows around it. The world stops. All he can hear, all he can feel, is the wind and it beckons to him. Pulling him toward the cliff’s edge, pushing him to the waves below.

“John, stop!”

John closes his eyes, a tear rolling down his cheek. That voice sounded deep and silky. It pulls him back from the brink and he is almost convinced it was the one man he would actually stop for. But, when he turns to face its source, Jim is the only man he sees. John’s face falls and he clutches at his ribs with his left hand, his right dangling uselessly at his side.

“Come back to the house, love.”

“No,” John starts shaking his head slowly. Jim inches toward him, pulling a gun from his pocket and training it on John.

“That wasn’t a request, John,” Jim fumes. “Go back to the house.”

“Or what?” John laughs defiantly. “You’ll shoot me? Be my guest. I’d rather die.” 

Jim fires and the bullet whizzes passed John’s ear. The ex-army captain doesn’t so much as flinch.

“I won’t be turned against my friends. Or Sherlock. He’s my life. I’ve been dead here without him.” 

John squares his shoulders and lets his left hand fall to his side. Jim cocks a brow, a look of panic flashes through his eyes. John takes a deep, cleansing breath and speaks in a low and dangerous voice.

“I will die before I EVER set foot in that house again.”

Jim raises his arm so the gun is even with his shoulder, level with John’s head. Jim’s eyes are dark and angry, his hair whipping in the wind.

“Get. In. The house.”

John shakes his head and starts stepping backwards. Jim begins to advance on him. He is about to yell something, but instead, both men stop. They stand there staring at one another with wide eyes before turning their heads in shock as a helicopter flies quickly toward them. It crosses overhead as they both watch and hovers twenty feet from the cliff. Jim curses loudly when he sees who is inside it.

“GOD DAMN IT!”

“James Moriarty,” Mycroft’s voice echoes loudly through the air, “put down the gun and step away from John Watson.”

John turns back to face Jim, already knowing exactly what the man will do and what he will say.

“I won’t say no one can have you if I can’t. But I sure as hell won’t let him have you.”

John braces himself for the shot. Jim squeezes the trigger. The bullet goes wide when Sherlock appears out of nowhere and throws his body at Jim, launching them both off the cliff and into the rocky waters below.

“SHERLOCK!” John shouts, his eyes desperately searching the churning waves below. Without hesitation, John leaps off the cliff after his detective.

In the helicopter, Mycroft watches him disappear into the swirling water and sighs.

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAAAAAATTTTT????? Like Phillip said in Hamilton: It's like that?  
> You bet your ass it's like that! My Purrfect calls me an Evil Author for a reason. Wah-pow!!
> 
> Today is a good day and I'm in a crazy mood, so DP all the way!  
> WTF, Jane?! Seriously. WAT THE FUCK! What is that? You didn't answer any questions. You just threw everyone off a fucking cliff. (OMG. I can actually hear Ryan Reynolds saying this in my head.) And that thing with Mary? Is that her name? What the fuck is that? There's something a wrong about her. She did what, just stayed in the closet listening? Twice! Yeah, that's just kinky, you know what I mean. But I guess she called in the good guys in the end. But no, don't trust her. And that pompous douche bag, Mycroft? Ha ha! He's gonna have to get wet. Ready for a little swim, Mycroft? (uncontrollable giggling)
> 
> Whew. Okay, that was a bit excessive. I'm like a woman possessed. Am I wearing a skin-tight black and red leather suit right now, living out my Deadpool dream? (uh, no)
> 
> I guess you all know I'm not going to stop at Part 4 now. I hope no one's disappointed that the show goes on. I know this is one damn long series, but hey, I've never made a secret of it. Persistence is key. A BIG, HUGE THANK YOU to all of you! You, who have stuck with me through it all. I draw so much strength and joy from all of you, and hope I'm bring you just as much joy with each new chapter. I love you all and hope to see you for Part 5. I'll work on getting it out as soon as I can.  
> Much love always, Jane
> 
> p.s. My apologies for all the swears. ;D  
> p.p.s. SHERLY!!! I can't wait to read your message on this one. Your swears are the best!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Looking for Asylum](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16000757) by [SrebrnaFH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH)




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